THE 

WILLIAM  R.  PERKINS 

LIBRARY 

OF 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY 


Rare  Books 


'^, 


Ujn^  try3o  "Slliu^  lliAat  ((Xn)^^  'Vvu/^^u/jaaaIi^ 


Books  by 
PROF.  RAYMOND  MACDONALD  ALDEN 

of  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University 

The  Art  of  Debate 

xv+279  pp.     i2ino.     $1.12  net. 

A  practical  manual  of  argumentation  and  debating,  sufficient- 
ly systematic  to  be  serviceable  as  a  text-book.  Legal  argument 
is  taken  as  a  means  of  approach  to  the  treatment  of  such 
matters  as  burden  of  proof  and  evidence;  and  the  classification 
of  methods  of  proof  is  based  on  the  exigencies  of  actual  debate. 

Prof.  E.  N.  Scott,  University  0/ Michigan  :  "  It  is  a  fresh 
and  interesting  treatment  of  the  subject,  packed  with  ideas 
expressed  in  a  most  delightful  and  taking  away. 

English  Verse 

With  Specimens  illustrating  its  Principles  and  History 
xiv+459  pp.     i2mo.     $1.25  net. 

Bliss  Perry ^  Editor  0/  the  Atlantic  Monthly  :  "  It  is  a  skill- 
fully planned  and  admirably  compact  handbook.  I  know  of 
no  treatise  on  versification  which  is  so  well  adapted  for 
practical  use  in  the  classroom." 

Introduction  to  Poetry 

^vi+371  pp.     i2mo.     $1.25  net. 

A  discussion  of  the  theory  of  poetry,  treating  the  various 
classes  of  poems  separately,  problems  of  the  inner  nature  of 
poetry  and  the  technical  metric  subdivisions. 

Henry   Holt  and  Company 

New  York  Chicago 


AN   INTRODUCTION 
TO    POETRY 


FOR  STUDENTS  OF  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE 


BY 

RAYMOND    MACDONALD    ALDEN,    Ph.D. 

ASSOCIATE    PROFESSOR    IN    LELAND   STANFORD 
JUNIOR    UNIVERSITY 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND  COMPANY 

1909 


Copyright,  igeg, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  to  some  extent  a  result  of  the  kind 
reception  accorded  English  Verse,  a  volume  of  an- 
notated selections,  illustrating  the  principles  and  his- 
tory of  English  versification,  which  appeared  about 
six  years  ago.  Some  who  have  made  use  of  that 
book  have  felt  the  need  of  a  treatise  which  should 
undertake  to  give  a  more  extended  account  of  mat- 
ters of  which  the  plan  of  the  earlier  volume  allowed 
only  brief  mention  in  notes.  And  when  it  came  to 
the  point  of  preparing  such  a  treatise,  it  seemed 
likely  that  similar  needs  would  be  served  by  includ- 
ing some  account  of  the  elements  of  poetry  other 
than  versification,  so  far  as  students  of  English 
literature  have  to  analyze  them.  The  present  vol- 
ume, then,  differs  from  English  Verse  in  three  prin- 
cipal ways :  it  is  more  frankly  dogmatic,  attempting 
to  state  principles  wnth  some  fullness  instead  of 
merely  bringing  together  the  materials  for  the  in- 
ductive study  of  the  subject ;  it  includes  a  discussion 
of  the  imaginative  and  spiritual  aspects  of  poetry, 
instead  of  limiting  itself  to  verse  form;  and  it  omits 
altogether  the  historical  treatment  of  the  material, 
except  where  this  is  necessarily  involved  in  clear- 
ness of  definition.  For  the  most  part  only  such 
brief  and  simple  discussion  has  been  undertaken  as 


iv  PREFACE, 

is  suited  to  an  introductory  handbook,  and  this  in- 
evitably results  in  a  certain  appearance  of  assertive- 
ness  or  dogmatism  which  would  be  avoidable  in  a 
more  elaborate  work ;  but  the  attempt  has  been  made 
always  to  indicate  the  still  unsettled  aspects  of  the 
subject,  and  to  include — in  the  sections  printed  in 
smaller  type — a  brief  account  of  the  state  of  opin- 
ion on  such  doubtful  matters,  with  references  to 
the  most  helpful  sources  of  information.  These 
smaller-type  sections,  then,  give  the  more  thoughtful 
student  a  very  simple  introduction  to  the  study  of 
the  history  of  poetic  theory.  Furthermore,  the 
table  of  contents  and  the  index  have  been  prepared 
with  some  care,  with  a  view  to  the  possibility  that 
students  who  do  not  care  (or  whose  teachers  do 
not  care  to  have  them)  to  follow  the  book  from  be- 
ginning to  end  may  conveniently  take  up  any  of  its 
sections  in  any  desired  order,  or  use  it  rather  as  a 
work  of  reference. 

One  cannot  help  feeling  that  there  is  room  for 
much  doubt  on  questions  of  proportion  and  empha- 
sis, in  the  case  of  so  brief  a  manual  on  so  large  a 
subject.  It  has  been  the  writer's  effort  to  settle 
these  questions  on  the  basis  of  actual  teaching  ex- 
perience, asking  always  what  is  most  important  for 
the  student  of  poetry,  aside  from  what  he  can  supply 
through  his  own  intelligence  and  taste.  And  in  the 
choice  of  illustrative  examples  and  of  references  for 
collateral  reading,  theoretical  excellence  and  com- 
pleteness have  been  subordinated  to  the  considera- 


PREFACE.  V 

tion  of  what  the  student  may  be  presumed  actually 
to  be  reading,  to  have  read,  or  to  undertake  to  read. 
It  can  hardly  be  hoped,  however,  that  the  judgment 
of  any  one  will  wholly  satisfy  others  in  these  re- 
spects. In  particular,  it  may  be  thought  unfortunate 
that  the  chapters  on  metrical  form  should  bulk  more 
largely  than  those  dealing  with  the  inner  elements 
of  poetry ;  to  which  there  is  only  the  reply  that  mat- 
ters of  metrical  form  appear  to  be,  not  the  most  im- 
portant, but  those  that  present  most  difficulty  to  the 
student  and  require  the  most  careful  examination  of 
details  still  under  debate. 

Chapter  Four,  on  the  fundamental  problems  of 
English  rhythm,  deals  with  the  point  of  greatest 
difficulty  in  the  whole  range  of  the  subject,  and  is 
to  be  regarded,  not  as  making  claim  to  originality, 
but  as  the  most  individual  portion  of  this  book.  So 
recently  as  the  time  of  publication  of  the  earlier 
volume,  English  Verse,  it  seemed  impracticable  to 
dogmatize  on  the  elements  of  our  metres,  with  any 
hope  of  doing  more  than  adding  another  note  to  the 
discordant  jangle  of  voices  on  that  dangerous  sub- 
ject. But  there  is  evidence  that  conditions  have  be- 
come more  hopeful;  recent  writers  have  seemed  to 
tend  more  and  more  toward  agreement  on  certain 
substantial  principles ;  and  while  one  must  still  wait, 
no  doubt,  for  a  generally  accredited  science  of 
English  prosody,  it  is  perhaps  safe  to  offer  for  the 
use  of  students  a  rather  more  pretentious  body  of 
doctrine  than  would  have  been  reasonable  hereto- 


VI 


PREFACE, 


fore.  Nearly  twenty-five  years  ago  appeared  the 
first  edition  of  Professor  Gummere's  Handbook  of 
Poetics,  in  which  it  was  clearly  stated  that  ''  when 
the  ear  detects  at  regular  intervals  a  recurrence  of 
accented  syllables,  varying  with  unaccented,  it  per- 
ceives rhythm,"  and  that  "  measured  intervals  of 
time  are  the  basis  of  all  verse ;  " — doctrines  wholly 
in  accord  with  the  teachings  of  this  book,  and  with 
the  present  tendency  of  metrical  criticism.  Yet 
even  in  that  admirable  handbook  the  further  state- 
ment was  made  that  "  accent  is  the  chief  factor  of 
modern  verse ;  "  and  it  is  unfortunately  probable 
that  most  of  those  who  have  used  the  book  have 
emphasized  this  second  (and  questionable)  state- 
ment at  the  expense  of  the  first  (and  unquestion- 
able). The  present  manual  is  based  on  the  be- 
lief that  the  time  has  come  to  make  it  clear 
even  to  the  elementary  student  that  the  two  ele- 
ments of  rhythm,  time  and  accent,  must  receive 
equal  attention,  and  that  he  will  do  well  to  attach 
his  study  of  verse  rhythm  to  his  study  of  music,  as 
Sidney  Lanier  first  urged  us  all  to  do, — without 
following  Lanier  in  his  more  unguarded  details. 

Such  a  book  as  this  should  of  course  be  used  in 
connection  with  anthologies  and  other  volumes  giv- 
ing abundant  examples  of  the  forms  of  poetry. 
To  this  end,  in  the  chapters  on  metrical  form,  fre- 
quent references  are  included  to  English  Verse,  the 
plan  of  which  made  possible  much  fuller  quotation 
of  illustrative  material.     It  may  be  added  that  the 


PREFACE. 


Vll 


poems  cited  by  way  of  illustration  have  been  chosen, 
so  far  as  was  entirely  to  the  purpose,  from  the  two 
volumes  of  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury,  in  order 
to  relate  the  manual  in  some  degree  to  an  anthology 
familiar  and  easily  accessible  to  students. 

Many  books  have  been  of  service  in  the  prepar- 
ation of  this  study,  and  those  specifically  drawn  upon 
are  duly  acknowledged  in  the  proper  places.  But  two 
should  also  be  mentioned  here  as  the  cause  of  special 
obligation :  Professors  Gayley  and  Scott's  Intro- 
duction  to  the  Methods  and  Materials  of  Literary 
Criticism,  and  Mr.  T.  S.  Omond's  English  Metrisfs 
in  the  Eighteenth  and  Nineteenth  Centuries. — both 
indispensable  to  the  serious  student  of  poetry.  The 
second  volume  of  Professor  Saintsbury's  History 
of  English  Prosody  came  to  hand  too  late  to  be 
used ;  it  is  regrettable  that  references  could  not  have 
been  included  to  his  discussion  of  such  subjects  as 
blank  verse  and  the  heroic  couplet.  It  is  also  re- 
grettable that  use  could  not  have  been  made  of  the 
forthcoming  volumes  of  M.  Verrier,  a  note  on 
which  is  included  in  the  bibliographical  appendix, 
and  which,  when  they  appear,  will  deserve  wide  and 
careful  reading.  Finally,  acknowledgment  is  due 
to  the  writer's  colleagues.  Professor  A.  G.  New- 
comer and  Professor  Henry  D.  Gray,  who  have 
kindly  read  portions  of  the  manuscript  and  made  a 
number  of  helpful  suggestions. 

R.  M.  A. 

Stanford  University,  California, 
January,  1909, 


CONTENTS 

^         Chapter  I. 
DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS. 

PAGH 

Poetry  Defined i 

(Definitions  of  various  critics) i 

Poetry  as  a  representative  art 4 

Its  use  of  the  sounds  of  speech 5 

(The  relations  of  poetry  to  the  other  arts) 6 

Imitation  and  creation 8 

Representation  rather  than  communication lo 

(Aristotelian  and  Baconian  theories) 1 1 

Universality ^^ 

Metrical  form ^5 

Emotional  appeal ^° 

The  imaginative  element   ^9 

Is  poetry  ever  chiefly  reasonable  ? 21 

(Relation  of  poetry  to  oratory  and  romance) 23 

Origins  of  Poetry -^ 

Communal  character  of  early  poetry 28 

Chapter  II. 

THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS. 

Methods  of  classification 3' 

The  principal  Types  :  Epic,  Lyric,  Dramatic 31 

So-called  Descriptive  Poetry 2Z 

Combinations  of  types  :  Lyrical  Ballad 34 

Dramatic  Lyric 35 

Other  combinations 36 

So-called  Reflective  Poetry 3^ 

ix 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

The  principal  TyvES.—Contimied. 

So-called  Didactic  Poetry yj 

Satiric  Poetry 40 

Pastoral  Poetry 40 

The  Epic 41 

Two  meanings  of  "  epic  " 41 

The  national  epic . .  42 

Communal  and  individual  types  of  epic 43 

Epic  qualities 44 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  epic) 44 

Decay  of  the  epic  type 47 

Variations  of  the  epic  type 49 

The  mock-epic - 50 

The  ballad 50 

Eallad  qualities 51 

Modern  ballads   51 

The  metrical  romance 51 

Other  narrative  forms 53 

Descriptive  epic  poems 54 

The  Lyric 55 

Two  meanings  of  "  lyric  " 55 

Subjective  character 56 

Structure  of  the  lyric 57 

Form  of  the  lyric 58 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  lyric) 59 

Methods  of  classification 61 

Song  lyrics 62 

The  Hymn 63 

Lyrics  of  more  literary  character 64 

Reflective  lyrics 65 

The  Ode  66 

The  Elegy 68 

The  pastoral  elegy 69 

The  Sonnet 70 

Vers  de  Societe 71 

The  Drama 74 

Composite  character  of  the  drama 74 

Lyric  and  epic  qualities  combined 74 

Language  of  dramatic  poetry 75 


CONTENTS, 


XI 


PAGE 

The  Drama. — Continued. 

Structure  of  the  drama 76 

Form  of  the  drama 77 

Decay  of  dramatic  poetry 78 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  drama)   79 

Dramas  classified  by  external  form - 80 

Dramas  tending  toward  epic  or  lyric  character 81 

Classical  and  romantic  dramas 82 

Comedy  and  Tragedy 85 

The  pleasure  of  comedy 86 

The  pleasure  of  tragedy 87 

("  Poetic  j  ustice  ") 89 

Mingling  of  comedy  and  tragedy 91 

The  burlesque  drama 92 


Chapter  III. 

THE  BASIS  OF  POETRY  (IXTERNAL) 

Problems  of  the  inner  nature  of  poetry 93 

The  Imagination 93 

Imagination  as  a  form  of  memory 93 

The  creative  imagination 95 

The  interpretative  imagination 97 

An  example  from  Shelley 98 

An  example  from  Dryden 99 

An  example  from  Keats 100 

An  example  from  Wordsworth loi 

New  combinations  and  interpretations  made  by  the  im- 
agination    102 

Fancy  as  an  aspect  of  imagination 102 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  imagination) 103 

Beauty  as  an  element  OF  Poetry  112 

Beauty  as  affecting  poetic  style 113 

Beauty  a  very  inclusive  term 114 

The  relation  of  Poetry  to  Truth 115 

Are  beauty  and  truth  identical  ?... 117 

When  is  poetry  truthful  ? 118 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  relation  of  Poetry  to  Truth. — Cotitinued. 

Poetry  as  a  teacher  of  man 1 1 8 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  ideal  in  poetry) 120 

Has  Poetry  a  special  kind  of  Subject  Matter  ? 122 

No  limits  to  poetic  material 123 

The  two  methods  of  poetic  treatment 126 

Has  Poetry  a  special  Style  ? 1 28 

The  "  neutral  "  style 129 

The  prosaic  style , 131 

(Wordsworth's  theory  of  style  in  poetry) 132 

Sources  of  the  qualities  of  poetical  style 138 

Concreteness 138 

Beauty  in  concrete  detail 141 

Figurative  language 142 

The  simile 142 

The  metaphor 144 

Personification 145 

Allegory 147 

Other  figurative  forms 148 

Choice  of  words  for  emotional  association 1 50 

Antiquated  diction 1 53 

Poetic  license 1 53 

Chapter  IV. 

THE  BASIS  OF  POETRY  (EXTERNAL). 

Rhythm  Defined 155 

The  two  elements  of  rhythm 1 57 

Musical  and  verse  rhythm  compared 1 58 

Rhythm  in  human  speech 160 

Rhythm  in  prose  and  verse  distinguished 161 

The  relation  of  Speech  Stresses  to  Verse  Rhythm 164 

Degrees  of  syllabic  accent 1 66 

Alterations  of  accent  to  fit  the  metrical  scheme. 167 

Hovering  accent 170 

Summary  of  laws  of  verse  accents 171 

(Conflicting  critical  views  as  to  the  relation  of  speech 

and  verse  accents) 1 73 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

PAGB 

The  relation  of  Speech  Quantities  to  Verse  Rhythm.  . .   175 

Relation  of  quantity  and  accent   178 

Quantity  altered  to  fit  the  metrical  scheme 180 

Pauses  used  to  complete  time-intervals 183 

Pauses  compensating  for  missing  syllables 184 

Summary  of  laws  of  verse  quantities 186 

The  adjustment  of  speech  to  rhythm 187 

(Conflicting  views  as  to  the  element  of  time  or  quantity 

in  English  verse) 1S8 

(Musical  notation  for  English  verse) 190 

Rhythm  AND  THE  INNER  NATURE  OF  Poetry 193 

Rhythm  as  a  means  of  beauty 193 

Rhythm  as  expressive  of  emotion 195 

Rhythm  as  a  means  of  imaginative  idealization 198 

Rhythm  as  a  modifier  of  crude  reality 200 

(Critical   discussions  of  the  place  and  function  of  the 
metrical  element  in  poetry) 202 

NON-RHYTHMICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  VeRSE    FoRM 2o6 

Tone-quality 207 

Similarity  of  sounds  (alliteration,  assonance,  etc.)--  •  •  209 

Sounds  imaginatively  suggestive 212 

Beauty  or  melody  in  verse  sounds 217 

(Critical  discussions  of  tone-quality) 218 

Chapter  V. 

ENGLISH  METRES. 

The  two  Units  of  Metre 221 

The  foot 222 

(Objections   to   the  use  of  the  term  "foot  "  in  English 

verse) 224 

Significance  of  various  names  of  feet 226 

(Are  iambic  and  trochaic  verse  rhythmically  different  ?).  228 

Practical  methods  of  naming  metres 23 1 

The  principal  Metrical  Types 232 

Various  exceptional  feet 233 

(The   so-called  amphibrach,  tribrach,  choriambus,  and 
paeon) 234 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAOI 

The  principal  Metrical  Twes.— Continued. 

(The  distinction  between  these  foot  names   in  classical 

and  English  prosody) 236 

(The  graphic  representation  of  metres) 238 

Variations  from  regular  Metrical  Form 241 

Change  of  particular  feet  by  altering  the  arrangement  of 

stress  or  number  of  syllables   241 

(Trisyllabic  feet ;  their  relation  to  elision  and  slurring).  243 

Metres  characteristically  variable   246 

^Esthetic  value  of  metrical  variety 248 

(Limits  of  metrical  variation) 251 

Truncation  and  extension  of  verses  (catalexis  ;  anacrusis ; 

feminine  ending) 254 

The  pause 258 

The  cesura 258 

The  end-pause 261 

The  principal  Metres 264 

Iambic  metres 264 

Four-stress  iambic  verse 266 

(Early   and    popular    four-stress   verse   with   irregular 

number  of  syllables)   267 

Five-stress  iambic  verse 268 

Heroic  couplet 269 

Blank  verse 271 

Six-stress  iambic  verse 276 

Seven-stress  iambic  verse 277 

Anapestic  metres 277 

Trochaic  metres 280 

Dactylic  metres 282 

The  English  "  hexameter  " , 283 

Other  pseudo-classical  metres 288 

Chapter  VI. 
RIME  AND  STANZA  FORMS. 

Nature  and  functions  of  Rime ...  290 

Masculine  and  feminine  rime 291 

Triple  rime 292 

Internal  rime 293 

Half -stressed  rime 296 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

Nature  and  functions  of  Kiwk.— Continued. 

Imperfect  rime 296 

Identical  rime - 298 

(Critical  discussions  of  rime) 299 

Rime  used  as  an  organizing  element  of  Verse  Form 300 

Rime  forming  couplet  and  te7za  rima 300 

The  stanza  301 

Rime  in  the  stanza , 302 

Sources  of  stanza  effects 303 

Stanzas  as  poetically  expressive 305 

Particular  stanza  forms  classified 306 

Distichs 306 

Tercets 307 

Q  iiatrains 307 

Five-line  stanzas 311 

Six-line  stanzas 312 

Seven-line  stanzas 314 

Eight-line  stanzas 315 

Nine-line  stanzas 317 

Ten-line  stanzas 318 

Refrain  stanzas 319 

Modern  stanza  varieties 321 

Pseudo-classical  stanzas 322 

(Critical  discussions  of  stanza  forms) 323 

The  Sonnet 325 

The  strict  Italian  type 326 

Bipartite  character 326 

The  English  type 328 

The  Spenserian  type 329 

Sources  of  sonnet  effects 330 

(Critical  discussions  of  the  sonnet) 331 

French  lyrical  Forms 332 

Triolet t^^t^ 

Rondeau  and  rondel 334 

Villanelle 335 

Ballade 336 

Sestina 337 

Pantoum 338 

(Critical  discussions  of  French  lyrical  forms) 338 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

The  Ode 339 

The  strict  Pindaric  type 340 

The  homostrophic  type 342 

The  irregular  type 342 

The  choral  type 345 

Related  irregular  verse  forms 346 

(Critical    discussions   of  the    ode    and    related   verse 

forms) 347 

APPENDIX 351 

INDEX 359 


AN  INTRODUCTION    TO  POETRY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

DEFINITIONS  AND   ORIGINS. 

The  word  Poetry  is  used  both  vaguely  and  va- 
riously, and  as  yet  no  single  attempt  to  define  it  has 
met  with  general  acceptance.     For  the 
purposes  of  this  study  it  will  be  consid-   Poetry  defined. 
ered  as  imaginative  metrical  discourse; 
or,    more    explicitly,    as    the    art    of    representing 
human  experiences,  in  so  far  as  they  are  of  lasting 
or  universal  interest,  in  metrical  language,  nsnally 
with  chief  reference  to  the  emotions  and  by  means 
of  the  imagination. 

Students  of  the  subject  will  be  interested  to  see 
other  statements  regarding  the  nature  of  poetry  which 
from  time  to  time  have  been  made  by  critics, — some 
of  them  attempts  at  logical  definition,  others  inciden- 
tal but  significant  descriptions  of  the  nature  and 
attributes  of  poetry. 

Coleridge :  **  A  poem  is  that  species  of  composi- 
tion, which  is  opposed  to  works  of  science,  by  pro- 
posing  for  its   immediate  object  pleasure,  not  truth ; 

I 


2  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

and  from  all  other  species,  having  this  object  in  com- 
mon with  it,  it  is  discriminated  by  proposing  to  it- 
self such  delight  from  the  whole,  as  is  compatible  with 
a  distinct  gratification  from  each  component  part." 
(BiograpJiia  Literaria,  chap,  xiv.) 

Leigh  Hunt :  "  Poetry  is  the  utterance  of  a  passion 
for  truth,  beauty,  and  power,  embodying  and  illus- 
trating its  conceptions  by  imagination  and  fancy,  and 
modulating  its  language  on  the  principle  of  variety 
in  uniformity."  (Essay  on  "What  is  Poetry?"  in 
Imagination  and  Fancy.) 

Macaulay :  "  By  poetry  we  mean  the  art  of  em- 
ploying words  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  an 
illusion  on  the  imagin-ation,  the  art  of  doing  by  means 
of  words  what  the  painter  does  by  means  of  colors." 
(Essay  on  Milton.) 

Hazlitt :  "  Poetry  is  the  natural  impression  of  any 
object  or  event,  by  its  vividness  exciting  an  involun- 
tary movement  of  imagination  and  passion,  and  pro- 
ducing, by  sympathy,  a  certain  modulation  of  the 
voice,  or  sounds,  expressing  it."  (Essay  "On  Poetry 
in  General.") 

Shelley :  "  Poetry,  in  a  general  sense,  may  be  de- 
fined to  be  the  expression  of  the  Imagination."  (A 
Defence  of  Poetry.) 

Wordsworth :  "  Poetry  is  the  image  of  man  and 
nature."  "  Poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of 
powerful  feelings :  it  takes  its  origin  from  emo- 
tion recollected  in  tranquillity."  (Preface  to  Lyrical 
Ballads.) 

Matthew  Arnold  :  "  Poetry  ....  a  criticism  of 
life  under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a  criticism  by 
the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty."  (Essay  on 
"The  Study  of  Poetry.") 

Emerson :    "  Poetry  is  the  perpetual  endeavor  to  ex- 


^*'^**^H^'^ 


rU  .( fv«-^  )^-^  t        -^  '^^  u 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGIJS, 


press  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  to  pass  the  brute  body 
and  search  the  Hfe  and  reason  which  causes  it  to 
exist."     (Essay  on  '*  Poetry  and  Imagination.")  /  <i 

Carlyle :  "  Poetry,  therefore,  we  will  call  musical 
Thought."  (Lecture  on  "The  Hero  as  Poet,"  in 
Heroes  and  Hero-lVorship.) 

Ruskin :  "  Poetry  is  the  suggestion,  by  the  imagina- 
tion, of  noble  grounds  for  the  noble  emotions.  I  mean 
by  the  noble  emotions  those  four  principal  sacred 
passions — Love,    Veneration,    Admiration,    and    Joy, 

.  .  .  and  their  opposites — Hatred,  Indignation 
(or  Scorn),  Horror,  and  Grief."  {Modern  Painters, 
Part   IV.) 

Poe :  "  I  would  define,  in  brief,  the  poetry  of  words 
as  the  rhythmical  creation  of  beautv."  (Essay  on 
''The   Poetic  Principle.") 

Alfred  Austin :  ''  Poetry  is  a  transfiguration  of 
life ;  in  other  words,  an  imaginative  representation,  in 
verse,  of  whatever  men  perceive,  feel,  think,  or  do." 
(Introduction  to  The  Human  Tragedy,  ed.  of  1889.) 

E.  C.  Stedman :  "  Poetry  is  rhythmical,  imagin- 
ative language  expressing  the  invention,  taste,  thought, 
passion,  and  insight  of  the  human  soul."  {The 
Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry.) 

Theodore  Watts :  ''  Absolute  poetry  is  the  concrete 
and  artistic  expression  of  the  human  mind  in  emo- 
tional and  rhythmical  language."  (Article  on 
**  Poetry  "  in  Encyclopedia  Britannica.) 

W.  J.  Courthope :  "  By  poetry  I  mean  the  art  of 
producing  pleasure  by  the  just  expression  of  imagin- 
ative thought  and  feeling  in  metrical  language." 
{The  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature.) 

D.  Masson:    "Poetry,  as  such,  is  cogitation  in  the 
language    of    concrete    circumstance,"      (Essay    on     ^ 
"Theories  of  Poetry.")  V--*  iJ:^^ 


Ou-...  H^t 


4  yiN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

C.  M.  Gayley:  **  Poetry  may  be  defined  as  the 
imaginative  and  emotive  expression  or  suggestion  of 
that  which  has  significance,  in  the  rhythmical  and 
preferably  metrical  medium  of  language  appropriate 
to  the  subject."  (Introduction  to  The  Principles  and 
Progress  of  English  Poetry.) 

M.  H.  Liddell :  "  Poetry  is  literature,  usually  of  a 
high  degree  of  Human  Interest,  which,  in  addition 
to  its  Human  Interest,  has  in  it  an  added  i^sthetic 
Interest  due  to  the  arrangement  of  some  easily  recog- 
nizable and  constantly  present  concomitant  of  thought- 
formulation  into  a  form  of  aesthetic  appeal  for 
which  an  appreciative  Esthetic  Sentiment  has  been 
gradually  developed  in  the  minds  of  those  who  habi- 
tually think  by  means  of  the  language  in  which  the 
poetry  is  written."  {Introduction  to  the  Scientific 
Study  of  Poetry.) 

References  to  other  definitions  and  discussions,  with 
brief  comments,  will  be  found  in  Gayley  and  Scott's 
Introduction  to  the  Methods  and  Materials  of  Literary 
Criticism,  vol.  i,  pp.  279-349.) 

A    somewhat    detailed    examination    of    certain 

phrases  in  our  definition  will  help  toward  its  fuller 

understanding.       In     the     first     place, 

Poetry  as  a  rep.   poetry  arises  from  the  natural  desire  of 

resentative  art.     ^  -^  ^ 

man  either  to  reproduce  what  he  sees 
and  hears,  or  to  express  in  permanent  form  what  he 
thinks  and  feels.  This  is  of  course  equally  true  of 
all  the  arts.  In  sculpture  and  painting,  man  at- 
tempts to  give  permanent  expression  to  his  impres- 
sions of  the  outer  world,  or  to  his  inner  reflections 
upon  it,  in  forms  of  space,  appealing  to  the  eye;  in 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  5 

music  and  poetry,  he  attempts  to  do  the  same  thing 
in  forms  of  titne,  appealing  to  the  ear.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  these  arts  differ  widely  among  themselves 
in  their  particular  capacities  for  accomplishing  their 
purpose.  The  so-called  plastic  or  formative  arts, 
dealing  with  objects  in  space,  are  peculiarly  well 
fitted  to  represent  the  impressions  of  form  and  color 
received  from  the  visible  world.  No  art  has  been 
developed  so  perfectly  suited  to  represent  the  sounds 
of  the  world  of  nature;  partly,  no  doubt,  because 
no  medium  has  been  discovered  by  which  these 
sounds  can  be  so  accurately  represented,  and  partly 
because  they  seem  not  to  appeal  so  strongly  to  the 
love  of  beauty  as  do  colors  and  forms,  or  to  call 
for  perpetuation  in  their  original  condition.  So  the 
art  of  music,  while  occasionally  descriptive  of  the 
sounds  of  the  natural  world,  deals  chiefly  in  sounds 
developed  for  itself  alone,  which  are  only  indirectly 
symbolic  of  other  experiences;  it  may  be  regarded 
as  the  art  in  which  man  has  gone  farthest  from  the 
mere  reproduction  of  the  data  of  life — the  things 
given  him  by  nature, — and  hence,  from  one  stand- 
point, as  the  most  purely  creative  of  the  arts. 

From  another  standpoint,  however,  poetry  is  even 
less  purely  imitative  or  reproductive  than  music. 
While     its     sounds     relate    themselves   ^ 

Its  nso  of 

rather   more   definitely   to   remembered    the  sounds 
experiences  than  do  those  of  music,  they   °  ^^^®°  ' 
are  even  more  purely  symbolic,   less  directly  de- 
scriptive, in  character.    Speech,  whose  sounds  con- 


6  yiN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

stitute  the  sounds  of  poetry,  has  marvelously 
developed  the  power  to  suggest  not  only  the  ex- 
periences of  the  senses,  but  those  purely  abstract 
and  spiritual,  most  characteristic  of  human  nature, 
which  man  has  sought  to  communicate  to  his  fellows 
in  his  best  and  wisest  moments.  Consider  the  cap- 
acity of  poetic  speech  to  convey  two  different  ex- 
periences, one  of  the  outer,  one  of  the  inner  life,  in 
these  two  passages : 

"  The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  Hark !  the  foes  come." 

"And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;     .     .     . 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Poetry,  therefore,  uses  speech  in  two  distinct 
ways :  first,  merely  as  rhythmical  sound,  one  of  the 
media  of  expression  in  terms  of  the  senses,  and 
secondly,  as  representative  of  definite  ideas  of  every 
possible  character,  by  means  of  the  symbolical  sig- 
nificance of  language.  Because  of  this  double 
power,  it  may  be  regarded  as  the  greatest  of  the  arts. 

On  the  relation  of  poetry  to  the  other  arts,  Hegel's 
discussion  is  perhaps  the  most  important.  The  fol- 
lowing summary  is  a  translation  from  the  abstract  of 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  7 

his  treatment  of  the  subject  in  the  JEsthetik,  by 
Benard,  in  La  Poctique  par  IV.  F.  Hegel  (Introduc- 
tion, p.  xxvii)  :  "  Above  both  painting  and  music 
appears  poetry,  the  art  which  expresses  itself  through 
speech.  Poetry  is  the  real  art  of  the  spirit,  that  which 
appears  actually  as  spirit.  Everything  which  the  in- 
telligence conceives,  which  it  works  out  in  the  inner 
labor  of  thought, — only  speech  can  include  this,  ex- 
press it,  and  represent  it  to  the  imagination.  At 
bottom,  therefore,  poetry  is  the  richest  of  all  the  arts ; 
its  domain  is  limitless.  However,  what  it  gains  on 
the  side  of  ideality  it  loses  on  the  side  of  the  senses. 
Since  it  does  not  address  itself  to  the  sense,  as  is  the 
case  with  the  arts  of  design,  nor  to  pure  sentiment, 
like  music,  but  undertakes  to  represent  to  the  imagin- 
ation spiritual  ideas  developed  by  the  spirit,  the  form 
of  expression  which  it  employs  does  not  have  the 
quaHty  of  a  physical  object,  where  the  idea  finds  the 
form  which  is  fitted  to  it.  In  poetry,  sound,  of  all  the 
materials  of  art  the  least  fitted  to  the  spirit,  does  not 
preserve,  as  in  music,  an  independent  value,  so  that 
the  art  has  for  its  essential  aim  to  give  it  form,  and 
exhausts  itself  in  that  task.  Here  sound  must  be  1  ,-  ;  \  u.n,i 
penetrated  by  the  idea  which  it  expresses,  it  must  ^^cH.©y.i^,, 
appear  as  the  mere  sign  of  the  thought.  But  by  this 
very  fact,  poetry,  thanks  to  this  universal  means  of 
expression,  becomes  the  universal  art.  It  reproduces 
in  its  own  domain  all  the  modes  of  representation 
which  belong  to  the  other  arts."  In  this  passage 
Hegel  doubtless  underestimates  the  power  of  poetry 
as  rhythmical  sound,  although  it  is  quite  true  that 
this  element  of  its  form  does  not  have  the  separate 
and  absolute  value  which  it  has  in  music.  A  more 
appreciative  account  of  the  capacity  of  poetry  on  this 
side,  in  its  analogy  with  music,  may  be  found  in  the 


8  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

discussion  of  Theodore  Watts  {Encyc.  Brit.).  Mr. 
Watts's  summary  is  as  follows :  "  As  compared  with 
sculpture  and  painting  the  great  infirmity  of  poetry, 
as  an  '  imitation '  of  nature,  is  of  course  that  the 
medium  is  always  and  of  necessity  words — even  when 
no  words  could,  in  the  dramatic  situation,  have  been 
spoken.  .  .  .  This  becomes  manifest  enough 
when  we  compare  the  Niobe  group  or  the  Laocoon 
group,  or  the  great  dramatic  paintings  of  the  modern 
world,  with  even  the  finest  efforts  of  dramatic  poetry, 
such  as  the  speech  of  Andromache  to  Hector,  or  the 
speech  of  Priam  to  Achilles,  nay  such  as  even  the 
cries  of  Cassandra  in  the  Agamemnon,  or  the  wail- 
ings  of  Lear  over  the  dead  Cordelia.  Even  when 
writing  the  words  uttered  by  CEdipus,  as  the  ter- 
rible truth  breaks  in  upon  his  soul,  Sophocles  must 
have  felt  that,  in  the  holiest  chambers  of  sorrow 
and  in  the  highest  agonies  of  suffering  reigns  that 
awful  silence  which  not  poetry,  but  painting  some- 
times, and  sculpture  always,  can  render.  ...  It 
is  in  giving  voice,  not  to  emotion  at  its  tensest,  but  to 
W-b'j  ft^-v,  the  variations  of  emotion,  it  is  in  expressing  the  count- 
t^OVx>CK#-K  ^  less  shifting  movements  of  the  soul  from  passion  to 
~  passion,  that  poetry  shows  in  spite  of  all  her  infirmities 
her  superiority  to  the  plastic  arts.  Hamlet  and  the 
Agamemnon,  the  Iliad  and  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus, 
are  adequate  to  the  entire  breadth  and  depth  of  man's 
soul."  On  the  relation  of  poetry  and  music  see  also 
Combarieu's  Les  Rapports  de  la  Musique  et  de  la  Poesie. 


It     has  already     appeared     that     the     phrase 

itationand  ''representing      human      experiences" 

ation.  includes  very   different  things  both   in 

the    word  represent    and    in    the    word    ex  peri- 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  g 

ence.  The  first  artistic  instinct  is  merely  to  re- 
produce what  is  seen.  Thus  Aristotle,  the  first  of 
the  great  writers  on  poetry,  said:  ''Poetry  in 
general  seems  to  have  sprung  from  two  causes,  each 
of  them  lying  deep  in  our  nature.  First,  the  instinct 
of  imitation  is  implanted  in  man  from  childhood, 
one  difference  between  him  and  other  animals  being 
that  he  is  the  most  imitative  of  living  creatures; 
and  through  imitation  he  learns  his  earliest  lessons ; 
and  no  less  universal  is  the  pleasure  felt  in  this 
imitation."  {Poetics,  chap,  iv,  Butcher's  transla- 
tion.) But  man  soon  goes  further  than  this:  he 
seeks  not  only  to  represent  what  he  sees,  but  to 
represent  imaginary  objects  which  have  only  been 
suggested  to  him  by  what  he  sees;  not  only  to  record 
occurrences  which  he  has  experienced,  but  those 
which  he  has  imagined  himself  to  experience. 
From  this  point  of  view  Lord  Bacon,  one  of  the 
earliest  writers  on  the  subject  in  our  language, 
called  poetry  feigned  history,  and  said  of  it :  ''  The 
use  of  this  feigned  history  hath  been  to  give  some 
shadow  of  satisfaction  to  the  mind  of  man  in  those 
points  wherein  the  nature  of  things  doth  deny  it — 
the  world  being  in  proportion  *  inferior  to  the  soul; 
by  reason  whereof  there  is  agreeable  to  the  spirit  of 
man  a  more  ample  greatness,  a  more  exact  good- 
ness, and  a  more  absolute  variety  than  can  be  found 
in  the  nature  of  things."     {Advancement  of  Learn- 

*  i.  e.,  symmetry  or  beauty  of  form. 


lO  y4N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ing,  Book  ii.)  This  new  world,  greater  and  more 
varied  than  nature,  it  is  the  business  of  poetry  to 
feign.  Both  Aristotle  and  Bacon  were  evidently 
thinking  chiefly  of  poetry  dealing  with  events, 
whether  real  or  imagined  (such  poetry  as  we  com- 
monly call  epic  or  dramatic) ;  this  is  characteristic  of 
early  criticism.  Still  another  step  is  therefore 
necessary:  further  removed  than  imagined  narra- 
tives from  the  mere  imitation  of  the  outer  world 
is  that  form  of  poetry  best  loved  in  later  times, 
which  expresses  men's  inner  experiences, — their 
hopes,  fears,  and  desires.  We  must  therefore  in- 
clude in  the  word  represent  both  the  copying  from 
that  which  is  revealed  by  the  senses,  and  the  de- 
picting of  that  which  has  been  revealed  only  to  the 
mind;  and  in  the  same  way  by  the  experiences 
which  are  the  subject-matter  of  poetry  we  must 
understand  not  merely  those  of  the  physical  world 
but  of  the  spirit. 

Again,  it  is  worth  while  to  inquire  why  the  term 

represent  is  a  more  adequate  word  for  our  definition 

than  the  word  "  communicate,"  which 

Kepresentation  i-      i  i 

rather  than  is  commouly  applicable  to  all  forms  of 
commtiiucation.  |-,^^j^^^j-j  gpecch.  In  a  scnsc  it  is  prop- 
erly applicable  to  poetry;  for  poetry,  like  all  forms 
of  art,  and  perhaps  rather  more  than  the  plastic  arts, 
represents  experiences  for  others  than  the  artist. 
Yet  if  we  compare  it  with  other  forms  of  speech, 
it  will  be  seen  that  the  desire  of  the  poet  to  give 
form  to  his  material  is  here  much  more  important, 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  1 1 

and  the  desire  to  convey  his  material  to  his  fellows 
is  less  important,  than  that  of  the  speaker  or  writer 
of  prose.  It  was  this  which  led  John  Stuart  Mill  to 
go  so  far  as  to  say,  when  contrasting  poetry  with 
eloquence,  that  the  latter  is  heard,  the  former  over- 
heard. 

It  has  long  been  common  to  refer  to  the  Aristotelian 
and  Baconian  conceptions  of  poetry  as  quite  different, 
or  even  in  mutual  opposition.  Thus  Masson.  in  his 
interesting  essay  on  '*  Theories  of  Poetry,"  says : 
'*  Though  it  would  be  possible  so  to  stretch  and  com- 
ment upon  Aristotle's  theory  of  poetry  as  to  make  it 
correspond  with  Bacon's,  yet,  prima  facie,  the  two 
theories  are  different,  and  even  antithetical.  .  .  . 
Aristotle  makes  the  essence  of  poetry  to  consist  in 
its  being  imitative  and  truthful ;  Bacon,  in  its  being 
creative  and  fantastical.  .  .  .  Amid  all  the  dis- 
cussions of  all  the  critics  as  to  the  nature  of  poetry, 
this  antagonism,  if  such  it  is,  between  the  Aristotelian 
and  the  Baconian  theories,  will  be  found  eternally 
reproducing  itself."  (pp.  200,  201.)  But  in  fact, 
while  the  term  "  imitation  "  may  be  inadequate  to  ex- 
press the  more  idealistic  or  creative  notion  of  the 
poet's  work,  it  is  probable  that  Aristotle  recognized 
this  as  clearly  as  Bacon,  his  famous  passage  on  poetry 
and  history  (chap,  ix),  and  that  on  poetry  and  proba- 
bility (chap.  XXV ),  being  quite  consistent  with,  as  they 
were  probably  the  source  of,  the  remarks  of  Bacon. 
So  Butcher,  in  his  chapter  on  *  imitation  as  an 
cTsthetic  term' :  "  The  idea  of  imitation  is  connected 
in  our  minds  with  a  want  of  creative  freedom,  with  a 
literal  or  servile  copying :  and  the  word,  as  transmitted 
from  Plato  to  Aristotle,  was  already  tinged  by  some 


12  y4N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

such  disparaging  associations.  .  .  .  Aristotle,  as  his 
manner  was,  accepted  the  current  phrase  and  inter- 
preted it  anew.  ...  A  crucial  instance  of  the 
inadequacy  of  the  literal  English  equivalent  *  imitation  ' 
to  express  the  Aristotelian  idea  is  afforded  by  a  pass- 
age in  ch.  XXV.  The  artist  may  'imitate  things  as  they 
ought  to  he' :  he  may  place  before  him  an  unrealised 
ideal."  (pp.  121,  122.)  Butcher  goes  on  to  point  out 
that  for  Aristode  the  subject-matter  of  poetry  was 
"  human  life, — its  mental  processes,  its  spiritual  move- 
ments, its  outward  acts."  The  sense  of  inadequacy  in 
the  treatment  of  the  subject  by  both  Aristotle  and 
Bacon,  as  felt  by  the  modern  reader,  is  probably  due  in 
great  part — as  already  suggested — to  the  fact  that  in 
our  time  the  predominance  of  lyrical  poetry,  with  its 
approach  to  human  life  from  the  subjective  standpoint, 
is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  objective  method  of  the 
epic  and  dramatic  forms  which  dominated  both  the 
classical  and  the  Elizabethan  periods. 

The  definition  further  limits  the  material  of  poetry 
by  the  phrase,  *'  in  so  far  as  they  are  of  lasting  or 

universal    interest."       This    limitation 

Uaiversaiity.      again  is  not  peculiar  to  poetry,  but  is 
'^^'"'^ ■    i  characteristic    of   poetry    as    literature, 

.  and  of  literature  as  art.  Art  takes  the  materials  of 
human  experience  from  every  quarter,  but  rejects 
those  which  are  purely  personal  or  temporary,  and 
works  with  those  elements  which — sometimes  for 
subtle  or  even  mysterious  reasons — are  of  universal 
significance.  In  an  art  gallery  one  may  often  see  a 
painting  named  simply  "  Portrait  of  a  Lady."  To 
the  lady's  friends  it  would  be  of  interest  to  know 


DEFINITIONS  ^ND  ORIGINS.  13 

that  it  is  the  picture  of  Mrs.  John  Smith;  to  the 
biographer  or  the  historian  the  same  question  would 
occur;  but  to  the  artist  her  name  is  a  matter  of  in- 
difference. Her  face  is  to  be  perpetuated  in  so  far 
as  it  can  be  made  to  appeal  to  the  interests  of  human 
nature  a  thousand  years  hence,  when  her  personality 
has  long  ceased  to  be  of  account  to  any  one  on  the 
earth.  It  is  so  with  poetry.  "  Beautiful  Evelyn 
Hope  is  dead,"  writes  Browning.  This  might  be 
neighborhood  gossip,  or  a  statement  in  the  daily 
newspaper — one  of  local  and  temporary  interest. 
But  Browning's  Evelyn  Hope  is  not  a  person  of 
local  and  temporary  interest ;  her  death  will  awaken 
sadness  as  long  as  the  English  language  is  spoken, 
because  it  is  the  universal  and  permanent  appeal 
lying  within  it,  which  a  poet  has  perpetuated.  This 
limitation,  then,  is  a  necessary  point  of  distinction 
betw^een  the  record  of  facts  and  literature.  I  may 
have  an  experience  which  moves  me  deeply;  I  may 
record  it  in  words ;  but  this  is  not  enough.  If  I  have 
not  presented  that  aspect  of  it  which  is  of  lasting 
interest  to  other  human  souls,  the  result  has  merely 
relieved  my  feelings — it  has  not  become  a  work  of 
art.  It  may  be  written  in  verse,  but  it  is  not  poetry. 
In  the  work  of  such  poets  as  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling, 
arising  from  contemporary  incidents  in  politics, 
commerce,  and  war,  one  should  seek  to  distinguish 
carefully  (though  the  line  may  of  course  be  a  dis- 
puted one)  between  the  good  journalistic  verse,  on 
themes  of  essentially  temporary  significance,  and 


14  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

the  real  poems  which — though  they  may  take  some 
trifling  incident  as  a  point  of  departure, — open  up 
universal  themes  and  may  be  presumed  to  have  long 
life  before  them. 

To  some  it  will  perhaps  seem  that  any  expression 
of  genuine  human  experience  has  the  elements  of 
universal  interest,  and  it  will  already  have  occurred 
to  the  thoughtful  student  that  the  limitation  just  dis- 
cussed is  in  part  opposed  to  the  Wordsworthian  theory 
of  poetry.  Wordsworth  held  that  poetry,  "  the  spon- 
taneous overflow  of  powerful  feelings,"  if  it  deals  with 
essential  human  emotions,  ought  to  awaken  similar 
emotions  in  every  open-hearted  reader,  and  so  become 
enduringly  vital.  But  while  this  general  principle 
has  won  acceptance,  it  remains  true  that  those  poems 
of  Wordsworth's  dealing  with  personal  experiences 
difficult  to  make  of  universal  interest,  have  least  of  the 
poetical  element,  and  survive  rather  as  literary  curi- 
osities than  otherwise.  Of  this  the  poem  called  The 
Idiot  Boy  is  an  interesting  example  (see  Wordsworth's 
defense  of  it,  in  a  letter  to  John  Wilson,  Knight's 
Life,  i.  398-405).  To  the  poet  himself  idiots  did  not 
seem  repulsive ;  on  the  contrary  he  told  his  corre- 
spondent that  he  often  applied  to  them,  in  his  own 
mind,  ''  that  sublime  expression  of  Scripture  that 
'  their  life  is  hidden  with  God.'  "  He  therefore  wrote 
the  poem  descriptive  of  the  idiot  boy  "  with  exceed- 
ing delight  and  pleasure,"  and  believed  that  a  reader 
not  hindered  by  a  false  standard  of  taste  should  and 
would  share  his  pleasure.  Experience  has  proved 
that  this  was  rather  an  idiosyncrasy  of  the  poet  than 
a  universal  human  element.  Other  examples  might 
easily  be  added,  but  this  aspect  of  the  subject  belongs 
rather  to  the  consideration  of  poetical  themes,  and  of 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  1 5 

the  place  of  beauty  in  poetry  (see  chap.  iii).  It  may 
be  noted  here  as  significant  that  certain  highly 
egoistical  poets,  whose  themes  are  sometimes  of  ques- 
tionably universal  interest,  such  as  Walt  Whitman 
and  the  late  W.  E.  Henley,  tend  to  adopt  metrical 
forms  different  from  those  developed  by  natural  lit- 
erary evolution  for  the  expression  of  poetical  ideas. 
On  this  point  see  chap,  iv,  and  especially  the  remark 
of  Courthope  on  Whitman's  poetry,  cited  on  p.  348. 

The  qualification  next  to  be  noted  is  that  of  met- 
rical language.     That  the  language  of  poetry  must 
be  metrical  is  not  universally  accepted, 
and  it  is  just  here  that  the  vagueness  of   Metrical  form, 
the  common  use  of  the  word  is  chiefly 
noticeable.     Vulgar    usage    includes    in    poetry    all 
writings  in  verse   form;  critical  usage,  discarding 
much  that  is  not  metrical,  often  includes  writings 
which  are  poetical  in  theme  or  style,  though  in  prose 
form.      The  one  class   has   in   mind   the  circle  of 
metrical    literature;    the    other    the    circle    of    im- 
aginative literature.*     These  two  circles  intersect, 


*  Some  writers,  like  Shelley  and  Ruskin,  even  use  Poetry  as  a 
vague  term  for  any  creative  art.  Coleridge,  in  his  first  essay  "  On 
the  Principles  of  Genial  Criticism  "  (1814),  said  :  "  All  the  fine  arts 
are  different  species  of  poetry,"  and  divided  them  into  "  poetry  of 
language  (poetry  in  the  emphatic  sense,  because  less  subject  to  the 
accidents  and  limitations  of  time  and  space) ;  poetry  of  the  ear,  or 
music;  and  poetry  of  the  eye,  which  is  again  subdivided  into  plastic 
poetry,  or  statuary,  and  graphic  poetr)*,  or  painting."  Later,  in  the 
essay  "  On  Poesy  or  Art"(i8i8?)  he  proposed  to  use  'poesy 'as 
the  generic  or  common  term,  and  to  distinguish  that  species  of 
poesy  which  is  not  muta  poesis  by  its  usual  name  *  poetry.' " 


l6  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

and  careful  usage  restricts  the  term  poetry  to  the 
territory  common  to  both :  that  is,  the  writings 
which  are  both  imaginative  in  character  and  metrical 
in  form.  On  the  external  side,  then,  we  should 
think  of  poetry  first  of  all  as  rhythmical  sound, — 
one  of  the  rhythmical  arts,  as  Aristotle  classified  it 
long  ago;  its  sounds  being  represented  by  printed 
words  just  as  music  is  represented  by  printed  notes, 
but  really  existing  in  time,  not  space,  and  for  the 
ear.  Why  it  is  that  literature  of  a  poetical  char- 
acter— that  is,  literature  appealing  to  the  emotions 
by  means  of  the  imagination — is  commonly  in 
metrical  form,  and  whether  we  can  explain  this  as 
not  an  incidental  or  accidental  connection,  but  one 
essential  to  the  nature  of  poetry,  are'questions  which 
will  be  considered  in  chapter  iv.  In  that  connection 
also  we  shall  see  why  it  is  not  sufficient  to  say,  as 
is  often  said,  that  poetry  is  in  rhythmical  form; 
namely,  because  this  would  be  equally  true  of  a  large 
part  of  literary  prose. 


The  contrary  view,  that  metre  is  not  a  necessary 
element  of  the  form  of  poetry,  has  of  course  good  au- 
thority behind  it.  Not  to  go  further,  Sidney  and  Shel- 
ley, writers  of  the  two  great  "  Defenses  "  of  poetry  in 
our  language,  take  this  position.  ''  It  is  not  riming 
and  versing  that  maketh  a  poet,"  said  Sidney,  "  no 
more  than  a  long  gown  maketh  an  advocate.  .  .  . 
One  may  be  a  poet  without  versing,  and  a  versifier 
without  poetry."  And  Shelley :  "  The  distinction  be- 
tween poets    and    prose    writers    is    a    vulgar    error. 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  1 7 

.  .  .  Plato  was  essentially  a  poet.  .  .  .  Lord 
Bacon  was  a  poet."  Yet  both  these  writers  admit  that 
in  actual  usage  the  quality  of  rhythm  at  least,  if  not 
metre,  is  almost  universal.  "  The  senate  of  poets," 
says  Sidney,  "  hath  chosen  verse  as  their  fittest  rai- 
ment ;  "  and  Shelley  tells  us  that  *'  the  language  of 
poets  has  ever  affected  a  certain  uniform  and  harmon- 
ious recurrence  of  sound,  without  which  it  were  not 
poetry,  and  which  is  scarcely  less  indispensable  to  the 
communication  of  its  influence  than  the  words  them- 
selves." The  position  of  Aristotle  on  this  matter  is 
ambiguous.  As  Butcher  observes,  the  obvious  impli- 
cation of  one  passage  (in  Poetics,  chap,  i),  is  "that 
the  meaning  of  the  word  '  poet '  should  be  widened  so 
as  to  include  any  writer,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  whose 
work  is  an  '  imitation  '  within  the  aesthetic  meaning 
of  the  term."  (p.  142.)  On  the  other  hand,  as  we 
have  seen,  he  treats  poetry  as  one  of  the  three  rhythmi- 
cal arts,  and  finds  its  second  principal  source  in  the 
universal  instinct  for  harmony  and  rhythm.  The  tend- 
ency of  modern  criticism  has  been  more  and  more 
toward  emphasizing  this  element  as  fundamental.  It 
is  sufficient  here  to  refer  the  student  to  Professor 
Gummere's  chapter  on  "  Rhythm  as  the  Essential  Fact 
of  Poetry,"  in  The  Beginnings  of  Poetry,  and  to  the 
article  on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  by 
Mr.  Theodore  Watts,  who  says :  "  The  theory  that 
versification  is  not  an  indispensable  requisite  of  a 
poem  seems  to  have  become  nearly  obsolete  in  our 
time.  Perhaps,  indeed,  many  critics  would  now  go  so 
far  in  the  contrary  direction  as  to  say  with  Hegel  that 
*  metre  is  the  first  and  only  condition  absolutely  de- 
manded by  poetry.' " 

We  now  reach  the  qualification  "  with  chief  ref- 


1 8  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

erence  to  the  emotions."     Here  the  emotions  are  in 

contrast  with  the  reason, — an  aspect  of 

Emotional  poetry    which    Colerido^e    had    in   mind 

appeal.  -^  -^  ° 

when  he  said  that  the  proper  opposite  of 
poetry  is  not  prose,  but  science.*  Prose  literature 
ordinarily  makes  its  primary  appeal  to  the  reason, 
adding  the  materials  of  intelhgent  thinking  one  to 
the  other,  with  clearness  and  coherence  as  its 
essential  qualities.  Emotional  appeal  is,  of  course, 
not  excluded  from  the  field  of  the  prose  writer;  but 
it  is  properly  subordinate,  and  whenever  it  looms 
too  large  the  reader  is  likely  to  feel  that  the  region 
of  poetry  is  being  intruded  upon.  The  poet,  on  the 
other  hand,  although  he  too  may  appeal  to  the  in- 
telligence of  his  reader,  seeks  his  point  of  contact 
with  some  possible  emotion  which  will  correspond 
with  the  emotion  dominating  his  own  theme ;  and  the 
reason  will  only  assist  in  developing  this  emotional 
appeal,  as  the  emotions  may  in  the  other  case  assist 
in  developing  an  appeal  to  the  reason.  In  different 
types  of  poetry,  and  in  the  work  of  different  poets, 
these  contrasted  elements  will  of  course  show  very 
different  proportional  importance,  and  oftentimes — 
we  may  even  say  usually — a  great  poem  is  marked 
by  the  presentation  of  a  great  idea.     Yet  its  char- 

*  "  The  common  essence  of  all  [the  forms  of  poetry  or  art]  con- 
sists in  the  excitement  of  emotion  for  the  immediate  purpose  of 
pleasure  through  the  medium  of  beauty  ;  herein  contra-distinguishing 
poetry  from  science,  the  immediate  object  and  primary  purpose  of 
which  is  truth  and  possible  utility."  (Preliminary  Essay  "  On  the 
Principles  of  Genial  Criticism  concerning  the  Fine  Arts.") 


DEFINITIONS  /IND  ORIGINS. 


19 


acteristic  quality  will  nevertheless  be  the  fusion  of 
this  idea  with  an  utterance  of  joy,  sorrow,  love, 
pity,  or  fear,  by  means  of  which  it  will  find  lodgment 
in  the  reader's  mind,  fused  there  also  with  the 
corresponding  emotion. 

Closely  connected  with  this  emotional  element  is 
the  last  of  the  qualifications  of  our  definition,  "  by 
means  of  the  imagination."    In  common 
life   and    in    art    alike,    it    is    the   emo-    imaginative 

element. 

tions  which  set  the  imagination  in  mo- 
tion, and,  vice  versa,  the  language  of  the  imagination 
which  stirs  the  emotions.  The  processes  which  we 
call  imaginative  are  lopposed  to  the  processes  of  ^ 
reason,  just  as  we  saw  that  the  appeal  to  the  emo- 
tions is  in  contrast  with  the  appeal  to  the  reason.  ^^. 
In  particular,  the  imaginative  processes  treat  facts, 
the  data  of  experience,  in  a  way  totally  different 
from  the  processes  of  which  the  reason  avails  itself, 
discarding  experiences  which  the  reason  values, 
utilizing  experiences  which  the  reason  discards,  and 
meaning  by  ''  truth  "  something  quite  different  from 
the  truth  of  science.  The  poet  may,  on  the  one 
hand,  discard  history  for  that  **  feigned  history."  as 
Bacon  called  it,  depicting  "  a  more  ample  great- 
ness, a  more  exact  goodness,  and  a  more  absolute 
variety  than  can  be  found  in  the  nature  of  things;  " 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  he  may  take  familiar  realities, 
and  seek  to  show  forth  different  meanings,  which 
he  has  seen  within  them  by  qualities  of  his  own. 
Either  process  is  included  in  what  we  call  Imagina- 


20  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

tion,  the  former  being  the  meaning  usually  attached 
to  the  word  by  earlier  writers,  the  latter  that  chiefly 
emphasized  by  waiters  since  the  time  of  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge.  Thus  Shakspere  described 
the  more  elementary  aspect  of  the  imagination  in 
the  well-known  passage,  playful  yet  philosophical, 
in  which  he  made  one  of  his  characters  place  the 
poet  with  the  lunatic  and  the  lover. 


The  lunatic,  the  lover  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold, 

That  is,  the  madman :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt: 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 

heaven ; 
And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

{Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  v,  i.) 


The  poet,  then,  is  like  the  lunatic  in  discarding 
the  ordinary  facts  of  life  for  those  which  impress 
him  with  vividness,  though  they  do  not  bear  the 
tests  of  science;  he  is  like  the  lover  in  being  swept 
along  by  emotion,  and  (again)  in  seeing  under  its 
guidance  what  those  in  more  commonplace  moods 
cannot  see.  All  three  exhibit  the  "  imagination  " 
of  the  type  emphasized  in  the  earlier  use  of  the 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS. 


21 


word,  the  feigning  of  zisible  experiences.  For  the 
"  imagination  "  of  the  other  type  we  may  best  go 
to  some  such  passage  as  this  from  Wordsworth: 

"  If  thou  partake  the  animating  faith 
That  poets,  even  as  prophets,  each  with  each 
Connected  in  a  mighty  scheme  of  truth, 
Have  each  his  own  pecuHar  faculty, 
Heaven's  gift,  a  sense  that  fits  him  to  perceive 
Objects  unseen  before,  thou  wilt  not  blame 
The  humblest  of  this  band  who  dares  to  hope 
That  unto  him  hath  also  been  vouchsafed 
An  insight  that  in  some  sort  he  possesses, 
A  privilege  whereby  a  work  of  his. 
Proceeding  from  a  source  of  untaught  things, 
Creative  and  enduring,  may  become 
A  power  like  one  of  Nature's." 

(Prelude,  Book  xiii.) 

Here  the  poet  is  likened,  not  to  those  carried  away 
by  visionary  experiences  which  feign  those  of  com- 
mon life,  but  to  the  prophet,  who  has  been  given  a 
divine  ''  insight  "  by  which  he  perceives  "  objects 
unseen  before "  in  their  relation  to  the  whole 
"  mighty  scheme  of  truth."  This  "  insight  "  is  the 
second  type  of  poetic  imagination.  (The  whole 
matter  of  the  imagination  in  poetry  is  reserved  for 
full  discussion  in  chapter  iii.) 

This  interpretation  of  poetry  as  ap- 
pealing to  the  emotions  by  means  of  the   ew  chMy 
imagination  is  so  fundamental  a  matter  reasonable? 
that   for   many   critics   it   is   the  substance   of   the 


22  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

definition.  Thus  Shelley  says :  "  Poetry,  in  a 
general  sense,  may  be  defined  to  be  '  the  expression 
of  the  imagination; ' '^  and  Theodore  Watts: 
"  No  literary  expression  can,  properly  speaking, 
be  called  poetry  that  is  not  in  a  certain  deep 
sense  emotional."  Why,  then,  was  the  modify- 
ing word  usually  admitted  into  our  definition? 
Merely  to  make  place  for  certain  types  of  litera- 
ture in  verse,  which  otherwise  it  would  be  exceed- 
ingly difficult  to  classify.  Sometimes  human 
experiences,  which  may  be  regarded  as  of  lasting  or 
universal  interest,  are  expressed  in  metrical  lan- 
guage and  with  artistic  form  and  finish,  yet  without 
chief  reference  to  the  emotions  and  by  the  processes 
of  reason  rather  than  of  the  imagination.  Litera- 
ture of  this  doubtful  type  is  particularly  likely  to  be 
found  among  the  writings  dating  from  the  latter 
half  of  the  seventeenth  and  the  former  half  of  the 
eighteenth  centuries,  and  in  that  period  they  were 
unquestioningly  classed  as  poetry.  Examples  are 
Dryden's  Religio  Laid,  an  essay  in  verse  on  the 
subject  of  the  Church  of  England,  Pope's  Essay  on 
Criticism,  a  literary  essay  in  verse,  and  Akenside's 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  an  essay  on  what  we 
should  now  call  general  aesthetics.  For  such  essays, 
according  to  the  prevalent  standards  of  later  criti- 
cism, the  prose  form  would  be  more  appropriate; 
yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  verse  form  in  which 
they  are  written  gives  a  certain  sense  of  artistic 
finish  or  completeness  and — for  some  readers,  at 


DEFINITIONS  yIND  ORIGINS.  23 

least — adds  to  the  pleasure  they  are  capable  of  pro- 
ducing. If  not  poetry,  then,  what  are  they  to  be 
called?  Analogous  with  this  problem  is  that  of 
certain  literary  types  in  prose  form,  found  in  such 
writers  as  De  Quincey  and  Ruskin,  which  in  emo- 
tional appeal  and  imaginative  method  seem  to 
enter  the  region  of  poetry  and  almost  to  demand 
metrical  form.  Both  these  types  lie  along  the 
borders  of  the  region  where  the  circle  of  imaginative 
literature  intersects  the  circle  of  literature  in  verse, 
and  tempt  us  to  blur  the  boundaries  of  our  definition 
for  the  sake  of  convenience  in  literary  description. 

A  similar  problem  is  raised  by  certain  recognized 
literary  types,  like  oratory  and  the  prose  romance, 
which  are  normally  in  prose,  yet  make  such  large  use 
of  imaginative  methods  and  emotional  appeal  as  to 
introduce  a  confusing  element  into  the  definition  of 
poetry.  In  the  case  of  the  prose  romance  discrimina- 
tion along  this  line  is  exceedingly  difficult.  Between 
the  Morte  Arthur  of  Malory  and  Tennyson's  Idylls  of 
the  King,  Lodge's  Rosalynde  and  Shakspere's  As  you 
Like  If,  Scott's  Ivanhoe  and  Marmion,  there  is  no  ob- 
vious difference  of  type  save  the  superficial  one  of 
metrical  form.  Whether  the  use  of  the  prose  form 
for  such  imaginative  methods  has  justified  itself  as 
fully  as  tlie  use  of  verse,  is  a  related  question  which 
cannot  here  be  discussed.  It  must  suffice  to  note  that 
primitive  imaginative  literature  is  nearly  always  in 
verse,  and  the  earlier  critics  had  no  such  difficultv  in 
fixing  the  limits  of  the  term  "  poetry  "  as  besets  those 
writing  after  the  remarkable  widening  of  the  field  of 


24  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

prose.     For  Aristotle,  for  example,  poetry  and  fiction 
are  very  nearly  synonymous  terms. 

Less  difficult,  on  the  whole,  is  the  related  question 
of  the  relation  of  poetry  and  oratory.  Although  their 
emotional  level  seems  often  much  the  same,  we  may 
safely  recur  to  the  fundamental  distinction  that  prose 
moves  on  the  ground  of  fact  and  by  the  method  of 
reason,  and  when  oratory  ceases  to  do  this,  it  tres- 
passes on  the  field  of  poetry.  The  distinction  is  well 
brought  out  by  a  brilliant  figure  of  Hazlitt's,  when  he 
says  that  Burke's  style  is  "  that  which  went  nearest 
to  the  verge  of  poetry,  and  yet  never  fell  over.  .  .  . 
It  diflfers  from  poetry,  as  I  conceive,  like  the  chamois 
from  the  eagle :  it  climbs  to  an  almost  equal  height, 
touches  upon  a  cloud,  overlooks  a  precipice,  is  pictur- 
esque, sublime — but  all  the  while,  instead  of  soaring 
through  the  air,  it  stands  upon  a  rocky  cliff,  clambers 
up  by  abrupt  and  intricate  ways.  .  .  .  The  prin- 
ciple which  guides  his  pen  is  truth,  not  beauty."  (Es- 
say on  "The  Prose  Style  of  Poets."  Works, 
1903  ed.,  vol.  vii,  p.  10.)  A  different  answer  to  the 
question  is  proposed  by  John  Stuart  Mill,  in  his 
"  Thoughts  on  Poetry  and  its  Varieties."  He  finds  the 
distinction  between  poetry  and  eloquence  in  the  fact 
that  only  the  latter  supposes  an  audience.  "  We  should 
say  that  eloquence  is  heard;  poetry  is  oz'^rheard.  .  .  . 
When  the  act  of  utterance  is  not  itself  the  end,  but  a 
means  to  an  end, —  .  .  .  when  the  expression  of  his 
emotions  ...  is  tinged  also  by  that  purpose,  by  that 
desire  of  making  an  impression  upon  another  mind, — 
then  it  ceases  to  be  poetry,  and  becomes  eloquence." 
{Dissertations  and  Discussions,  1882  ed.,  vol.  i,  pp. 
97,  98.)  While  this  is  a  suggestive  passage.  Mill's  dis- 
tinction seems  too  much  based  upon  lyrical  poetry,  and 
that  of  the  more  modern  subjective  sort.     Primitive 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS. 


25 


poetry,  particularly  of  the  narrative  kind,  very  gener- 
ally presupposes  an  audience, — a  fact  illustrated  by 
the  introductory  *'  Lordings,"  and  similar  phrases  of 
address,  characteristic  of  early  epic  and  ballad. 

A  very  interesting  and  more  careful  working  out 
of  the  same  sort  of  differentiation  is  that  of  Professor 
F.  N.  Scott,  in  an  article  on  "  The  Most  Fundamental 
Differentia  of  Poetry  and  Prose,"  in  the  Publications 
of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  vol.  xix,  p.  250. 
Professor  Scott  draws  the  fundamental  line  between 
literature  which  may  be  termed  '*  expression  for  com- 
munication's sake "  and  that  which  may  be  termed 
''  communication  for  expression's  sake."  If  the  desire 
to  express,  rather  than  to  communicate,  is  predominant, 
the  type  is  that  of  poetry.  (Compare  the  remarks  on 
page  10  above.)  In  support  of  this  distinction,  Shelley 
is  cited,  saying:  **  A  poet  is  a  nightingale,  who  sits  in 
darkness  and  sings  to  cheer  its  own  solitude  with 
sweet  sounds,"  and  Mrs.  Browning: 

"  What  the  poet  writes, 
He  writes ;  mankind  accepts  it  if  it  suits." 

Further  from  Mr.  Scott :  "  Anyone  who  has  written 
verse  knows  how  fatal  to  the  versifying  mood  it  is  to 
let  the  mind  wander  to  anticipated  readers,  and  busy 
itself  with  their  hypothetical  needs  and  desires.  .  .  . 
In  writing  prose,  however,  the  case  is  just  the  oppos- 
ite." "  Prose-poetry  results  when  a  writer  adhering 
to  the  traditional  medium  of  communication — the 
forms  invested  by  long  use  with  communicative  as- 
sociations— becomes  interested  mainly  in  expression." 
Finally,  the  student  is  referred  to  a  valuable  dis- 
cussion of  the  difference  between  poetry  and  prose 
in  Masson's  essay  on  "Prose  and  Verse"  (reprinted 


26  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

in  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Other  Essays). 
His  summary  is  as  follows :  "  That  in  the  whole  vast 
field  of  the  speculative  and  didactic,  prose  is  the  legiti- 
mate monarch,  receiving  verse  but  as  a  visitor  and 
guest,  who  will  carry  back  bits  of  rich  ore  and  other 
specimens  of  the  land's  produce ;  that  in  the  great 
business  of  record,  also,  prose  is  pre-eminent,  verse 
but  voluntarily  assisting;  that  in  the  expression  of 
passion,  and  the  work  of  moral  stimulation,  verse  and 
prose  meet  as  co-equals,  prose  undertaking  the  rougher 
and  harder  duty,  where  passion  intermingles  with  the 
storm  of  current  doctrine,  and  with  the  play  and  con- 
flict of  social  interests — sometimes,  when  thus  engaged, 
bursting  forth  into  such  strains  of  irregular  music  that 
verse  takes  up  the  echo  and  prolongs  it  in  measured 
modulation,  leaving  prose  rapt  and  listening  to  hear 
itself  outdone ;  and  lastly,  that  in  the  noble  realm  of 
poetry  or  imagination  prose  also  is  capable  of  all  ex- 
quisite, beautiful,  powerful,  and  magnificent  effects, 
but  that,  by  reason  of  a  greater  ease  with  fancies  when 
they  come  in  crowds,  and  of  a  greater  range  and  arbi- 
trariness of  combination,  verse  here  moves  with  the 
more  royal  gait.  And  thus  Prose  and  Verse  are  pre- 
sented as  two  circles  or  spheres,  not  entirely  separate, 
as  some  would  make  them,  but  intersecting  and  inter- 
penetrating through  a  large  portion  of  both  their  bulks, 
and  disconnected  only  in  two  crescents  outstanding 
at  the  right  and  left."     (1875  ed.,  pp.  289,  290.) 

In  general,  to  define  any  matter  includes  some  con- 
sideration of  its  origins ;  but  as  it  is  nec- 

poefry.^  °^  cssary  to  exclude  from  the  present  book 

the  historical  study  of  poetry,  and  as 

its  origins  are  involved  in  the  uncertainties  of  pre- 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  27 

historic  ages,  this  aspect  of  the  introductory  defini- 
tion must  be  passed  over  very  briefly.  In  general, 
while  there  is  still  much  disagreement  as  to  the  most 
primitive  forms  of  poetry,  and  their  relation  to  the 
other  arts,  two  things  seem  fairly  certain :  first,  that 
poetry  is  the  earliest  form  of  literary  art,  and 
second,  that  in  its  origins  it  was  connected  in- 
separably with  the  other  rhythmical  arts — music, 
song,  and  the  dance.  For  a  long  time  it  remained 
the  accepted  form  for  the  expression  of  all  artistic 
or  imaginative  utterances  in  language, — for  a  con- 
siderable time,  indeed,  the  accepted  form  for  what- 
ever was  thought  memorable,  or  worthy  of  being 
handed  down  from  one  generation  to  another. 
Later  the  capacities  of  prose  for  permanent,  and 
still  later  for  artistic,  expression  narrowed  the  field 
of  poetry.  Again,  primitive  man  expressed  his 
emotions  by  a  composite  art  which  gradually 
divided  and  has  gone  on  dividing  into  the  now 
widely  divergent  arts  of  poetry,  vocal  and  instru- 
mental music,  and  dancing.  One  may  still  see  the 
original  conditions  preserved  in  Indian  ceremonials, 
for  which  the  medicine-man  of  the  tribe  will  com- 
pose what  is  at  once  a  poetic  ritual,  a  song  and 
chorus,  and  a  dance,  the  symbolical  meaning  of  all 
which,  for  the  purpose  of  expressing  some  great 
tribal  emotion,  will  be  instantly  evident  to  his 
associates.     Such  a  medicine-man  said  to  a  visitor,* 

*  Mrs.  Mary  Austin,  by  whose  kind  permission  the  incident  is 
cited  from  a  still  unpublished  essay. 


28  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

in  discussing  the  difference  between  his  art  and 
that  of  the  white  man :  ''  White  man's  poetry  no 
good :  it  talks  too  much."  That  is  to  say,  the  white 
man's  poetry  was  to  him  a  mass  of  words,  lacking 
in  that  complex  and  symbolic  power  of  conveying 
emotion  which  his  native  art  possessed.  As  civiliza- 
tion has  advanced,  the  more  intellectual  aspects  of 
this  original  combined  art,  such  as  poetry  and  har- 
monic music,  have  been  very  highly  developed  ac- 
cording to  their  separate  possibilities;  while  the  less 
intellectual,  vocal  music  and  the  dance,  have  de- 
clined in  power,  the  latter  even  passing  altogether 
from  the  group  of  the  fine  arts. 

Further, — although  here  there  is  somewhat  less 
agreement  than  in  the  case  of  the  matters  just  dis- 
cussed,— it  seems  fairly  well  established 

Comnnmal  -^ 

character  of  that  poctry  arosc  from  the  social  or 
earypoery.  communal  expression  of  emotions  held 
in  common  by  primitive  groups  of  men,  and  only 
by  degrees  came  to  be  a  means  of  expression  of  the 
feelings  and  ideas  of  individuals.  This  communal 
aspect  of  poetry  may  also  be  seen  very  clearly  in 
surviving  bodies  of  primitive  man ;  the  tribe  as  a 
whole  speaks  through  its  poetry,  whether  for  wor- 
ship, war,  or  the  chase.  Among  the  earliest  poetic 
creations  of  almost  every  people  are  verses  designed 
to  serve  as  charms  against  evil,  as  propitiations  of 
divine  beings,  as  expressions  of  the  joy  of  the  mass 
of  men  in  some  common  occupation  (hunting, 
planting,  fighting),  or  of  the  emotions  experienced 


DEFINITIONS  AND  ORIGINS.  29 

at  moments  when  marriage  or  death  brings 
them  together  for  some  common  ritual.  Individual 
artists  of  course  contribute  to  the  development  of 
this  poetry,  and  lead  their  fellows  in  uttering  it; 
but  it  is,  in  a  very  real  way,  the  voice  of  the  people 
as  a  whole.  The  history  of  later  poetry  has 
been  the  history  of  the  development  of  individual 
expression.  "  Song,  once  the  consolation  and  ex- 
pression of  the  festal  crowd,  comes  to  be  the  con- 
solation and  expression  of  the  solitary  poet." 
(Beginnings  of  Poetry,  p.  140.)  In  the  narrative 
poems  of  Scott,  as  Professor  Gummere  points  out  so 
suggestively,  we  have  the  latest  expression  of  the 
communal  ballad  spirit  in  modern  poetry;  on  the 
other  hand,  he  finds  in  Keats's  words, 

''  On  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone  and  think," 

the  "  modern  lyric  attitude  in  contrast  with  a  sing- 
ing and  dancing  throng."  (p.  157.)  Along  with 
this  development  there  has  of  course  come  an  elabor- 
ate development  of  consciously  artistic  poetical 
forms,  in  contrast  with  the  simplicity  and  restrictive 
conventionality  of  earlier  poetry.  Finally,  as  has 
been  suggested  in  an  earlier  paragraph,  it  is  evident 
that  poetry  (like  other  forms  of  literature)  has  all 
the  time  turned  more  and  more  from  the  representa- 
tion of  the  external  or  objective  experiences  of  man, 
to  the  inner  life — the  experiences  of  his  spirit. 


30  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

The  best  account  of  primitive  poetry  is  that  of  Pro- 
fessor Gummere,  discussed  with  elaboration  and  a 
wealth  of  learning  in  The  Beginnings  of  Poetry,  and, 
in  more  popular  form,  in  The  Popular  Ballad.  On  the 
union  of  the  rhythmical  arts,  persisting  throughout 
the  classical  Greek  period,  see  Butcher's  Aristotle's 
Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art,  pp.  138-140.  "  The 
intimate  fusion  of  the  three  arts  .  .  .  was  exhibited 
even  in  the  person  of  the  artist.  The  office  of  the  poet 
as  teacher  of  the  chorus  demanded  a  practical  knowl- 
edge of  all  that  passed  under  the  term  '  dancing,'  in- 
cluding steps,  gestures,  attitudes,  and  the  varied  re- 
sources of  rhythmical  movement.  .  .  .  The  poet, 
lyric  or  dramatic,  composed  the  accompaniment  as 
well  as  wrote  the  verses ;  and  it  was  made  a  reproach 
against  Euripides,  who  was  the  first  to  deviate  from 
the  established  usage,  that  he  sought  the  aid  of  lophon, 
son  of  Sophocles,  in  the  musical  setting  of  his  dramas." 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS. 


To  classify  the   forms  of  poetry  by  any  single 
adequate  system  may  be  said  to  be  impossible,  since 
there    are   so    many   standpoints    from 
which  such  a  classification  may  be  under-   JJassificltL. 
taken.     One  may,  for  example,  classify 
by  subject-matter:  poems  dealing  with  external  nat- 
ure, with  man  and  his  emotions,  with  man  and  his 
deeds,  with  God  and  the  world  of  spirit.     Or,  as 
Wordsworth  did  with  his  poems,  according  to  that 
poetical  faculty  which  they  chiefly  exhibit :  poems  of 
Fancy,  of  Imagination,  of  the  Affections,  of  Senti- 
ment and  Reflection.     Or,  again,  one  may  classify 
according  to  metrical  form,  which   in  many  cases 
gives  also  a  clue  to  the  real  character  of  a  poem,  as 
in  the  cases  of  the  ballade,  sonnet,  or  ode. 

But  the  most  familiar,  and  probably  the  most  use- 
ful, method  is  to  classify  poems  accord-   „, 

,  .  ,      .  ,     ,  .The  principal 

mg  to  the  pomt  of  view  of  the  poet  m  types  •.  Epic, 
relation  to  his  material.     If  he  stands  ^-y^^^' dramatic. 
outside  it,   representing  something  experienced  in 

31 


32  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

the  world  beyond  himself,  by  what  is  often  called 
the  "  objective  "  method,  the  result  is  narrative  or 
epic  poetry.  If  he  speaks  for  himself,  setting  forth 
inner  experiences  (not  necessarily  his  own  in  fact, 
but  made  his  own  for  the  time  being)  by  the  "  sub- 
jective "  method,  the  result  is  lyrical  poetry.  If  he 
combines  these  two  methods,  presenting  an  action 
objectively,  but  doing  so  in  the  words  and  through 
the  emotional  experiences  of  the  actors,  the  result 
is  dramatic  poetry.  This  is  the  classification  used 
by  the  ancient  Greeks,  whose  tact,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  observes,  "  in  matters  of  this  kind  was  in- 
fallible;" and,  while  it  is  not  adapted  absolutely 
without  question  to  the  whole  body  of  modern 
poetry,  it  is  the  division  of  the  subject  which 
modern  criticism  has  generally  preferred. 

The  explanation  of  the  three  classes  of  poetry,  as 
here  given,  is  substantially  Hegel's.  No  complete 
exposition  of  the  matter  has  come  down  to  us  from 
ancient  times,  Aristotle's  work  being  notoriously  de- 
ficient on  the  side  of  lyrical  poetry.  The  origin  of 
the  threefold  division,  however,  was  doubtless  purely 
natural  rather  than  philosophical.  The  epic  was  the 
popular  poetry  of  recital ;  the  lyric  (or  "  melic  ")  was 
song-poetry,  intended  for  use  by  an  individual  singer 
with  accompaniment,  while  from  this  were  distin- 
guished the  elegiac  and  choral  lyrics  (as  we  now  should 
call  them),  rather  by  their  metrical  form  and  manner 
of  delivery  than  by  any  deeper  considerations ;  the 
drama  was  of  course  quite  distinct  (although  involv- 
ing the  choral  lyric)   for  the  same  reason.     Here  as 


THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS. 


33 


elsewhere  the  instinct  to  classify  philosophically  is  a 
modern  development. 

Certain  minor  groups  of  poetry,  not  easily  con- 
forming to  these  three,  were  however  recognized  by 
the  ancients ;  and  as  the  development  of  ^ 
the  art  has  gone  on  still  other  types  have  descriptive 
arisen  which  can  with  difficulty  be  ^°^^'^^' 
placed  wholly  within  the  limits  of  any  of  the  groups. 
A  group  called  ''  descriptive  "  poetry  is  recognized 
by  some  writers,  including  poetry  devoted  to  the 
portrayal  of  external  objects  as  distinguished  from 
the  narrative  of  events.  In  fact,  however,  de- 
scription, in  verse  as  in  prose,  is  almost  invariably 
used  not  for  its  own  sake  but  as  incidental  to  some 
larger  purpose.  So-called  descriptive  poetry  is  very 
commonly  lyrical,  expressing  the  feeling  of  the  poet 
for  the  object  or  scene  in  question,  rather  than  at- 
tempting merely  to  represent  it.  A  good  example 
is  Wordsworth's  Sonnet  on  Westminster  Bridge, 
beginning 

"  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair," 
and  ending 

"  Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still !  " 

This  is  purely  descriptive,  yet  such  a  line  as 
"  Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  " 


34 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


gives  a  clue — if  a  clue  were  needed — to  the  fact  that 
it  is  really  the  feeling  of  the  poet  which  forms  the 
substance  of  the  poem.  There  is,  however,  a  class 
of  descriptive  poetry  which  is  rather  to  be  grouped 
with  the  epic,  not  only  because  it  deals  with  nature 
from  the  objective  standpoint,  but  because  it  fol- 
lows something  of  the  method  of  narrative  poetry, 
moving  through  space,  and  perhaps  even  through 
time,  to  accomplish  its  purpose.  We  shall  there- 
fore consider  this  group  of  poems,  of  which  Thom- 
son's Seasons  is  a  conspicuous  example,  under  the 
head  of  the  epic. 

Still  other  poems  present  deliberate  combinations 

of  two  types  of  composition,  as  is  suggested  by  the 

names     chosen    by    Wordsworth     and 

Combinations  , 

of  types :  lyrical  Browuing,     respectively,      for     certani 
^  ^  '  poems  very  characteristic  of  their  artistic 

methods :  ''  Lyrical  Ballads,"  on  the  one  hand, 
"Dramatic  Lyrics"  on  the  other.  By  a  lyrical 
ballad  Wordsworth  meant  a  poem  w^hich  in  form 
was  narrative,  but  in  which,  as  he  said,  the  feeling 
developed  ''  gives  importance  to  the  action  and 
situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situation  to  the 
feeling."  There  is  a  sense  in  which  this  might  be 
said  to  be  true  of  any  great  narrative  poem,  since 
its  source  of  power  is  the  emotion  aroused  by  the 
poet  in  the  telling  of  the  story;  but  Wordsworth 
went  further,  and  had  in  mind  a  type  of  poetry 
whose  narrative  form  is  merely  a  convenient 
means  to  express  some  feeling  of  the  poet  himself. 


THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS. 


35 


Of  this  type  are  such  poems  as  The  Two  April 
Mornings,  Lucy  Gray,  The  Sailor's  Mother,  The 
Last  of  the  Flock,  and  Beggars,  in  each  of  which  a 
trifling  incident  is  related  and  left  to  communicate 
its  own  lyrical  impression.  The  same  term,  "  lyrical 
ballad,"  is  also  conveniently  applied  to  narrative 
poems  of  a  different  type,  like  Drayton's  ode  on  the 
battle  of  Agincourt,  or  Tennyson's  on  the  Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade, — poems  which  tell  a  story, 
but  only  for  the  purpose  of  arousing  feeling. 

Browning's  *'  dramatic  lyrics,"  on  the  other  hand, 
were,  as  he  said,  "  though  often  lyric  in  expression, 
always  dramatic  in  principle,  and  so 
many  utterances  of  so  many  imagin-  J^ramatic 
ary  persons,  not  mine."  That  is  to 
say,  the  purpose  of  the  poet  in  this  type  Is  to 
present  a  situation,  and  not  infrequently  a  certain 
amount  of  action,  through  the  words  of  the  char- 
acters concerned.  Great  examples  of  Browning's 
dramatic  lyrics  are  The  Confessional,  Tzco  in  the 
Campagna,  and  (though  he  did  not  include  these 
others  under  the  same  caption)  Fra  Lippo  Lippi, 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  and  Aht  Vogler.  Tennyson 
adopted  a  similar  form  in  Ulysses,  Tithonus, 
Rispah,  The  Grandmother,  and  other  poems.  A 
striking  example  in  recent  American  literature  is 
Mr.  W.  V.  Moody's  The  Menagerie.  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling,  in  many  of  his  poems  dealing  with  the 
soldiers  of  the  British  army  (Danny  Deever  is  per- 
haps the  most  notable  example),  has  developed  a 


36  y4J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

type  of  mingled  narrative  and  lyrical  expression  to 
which  one  might  give  either  the  name  of  lyrical 
ballad  or  dramatic  lyric,  according  to  the  standpoint 
taken. 

The  different  types  are  also  found  in  combination 
in  poems  developed  on  a  more  elaborate  scale.  Thus 
Browning's  Ring  and  the  Book  is  a 
btaalT  kind  of  huge  expansion  of  the  type 
already  illustrated  from  his  shorter 
poems ;  here,  through  a  series  of  ten  great  dramatic 
lyrics,  he  tells  the  same  story  from  the  standpoint 
of  each  several  character  involved  in  the  action. 
Again,  a  number  of  pure  lyrics,  representative  of  a 
single  character,  are  sometimes  set  together  to  tell  a 
story  in  what  is  really  dramatic  form.  This  type 
(called  a  "  monodrama,"  or  drama  with  a  single 
actor)  appears  in  Tennyson's  Maud  and  Browning's 
James  Lee's  Wife, 

There  remain  to  be  considered  certain  doubtful 

groups  or  classes,  which  are  sometimes  attached  to 

one  or  another  of  our  three  principal 

So-called  .  ,        ,. 

reflective  kmds,   and  sometimes  given   subordm- 

poetry.  ^^^  placcs  by  tliemselvcs.     A   class   is 

occasionally  made  of  poems  called  reflective  or  philo- 
sophicai.  This  type  of  poetry,  which  ordinarily 
arises  only  in  highly  developed  and  self-conscious 
times,  is  furthest  removed  from  the  primitive  im- 
pulse to  deal  with  the  simple  data  of  human  ex- 
perience. Usually,  according  to  the  form  and 
method  of  each  example,  it  may  be  considered  as  a 


THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS.  37 

development  of  either  the  lyric  or  the  epic.  Some- 
times the  effort  of  the  poet  is  to  expound  human 
life,  or  the  relation  of  man  to  the  universe,  in  partly 
narrative  form,  or  at  any  rate  by  the  progressive 
method  of  the  epic;  examples  of  this  character  are 
Cowper's  Task,  Wordsworth's  Excursion,  Brown- 
ing's Fifine  at  the  Fair,  and  (in  smaller  compass) 
Tennyson's  Lucretius.  Again,  the  poet  may  do  the 
same  thing  in  his  own  person,  or  through  the  im- 
agined voice  of  another,  by  the  method  of  the  lyric; 
examples  of  this  character  are  Wordsworth's 
Tint  em  Abbey,  Browning's  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  and 
Tennyson's  St.  Simeon  Stylites.  In  Memoriam  is 
an  instance  of  the  grouping  of  lyrics  for  reflective  or 
philosophical  ends,  as  in  Maud  they  are  grouped  for 
more  dramatic  ends.  Even  the  dramatic  form,  in 
a  profoundly  reflective  poet  like  Browning,  may 
become  the  vehicle  for  poetry  of  this  order. 

Very  closely  connected  with  so-called  ''  reflective  " 
poetry  is  that  sometimes  given  a  separate  class  under 
the    caption    "  didactic."      This    term,   „ 

.  .         ,,       .  So-called 

literally  meaning  ''  teaching,"  is  a  didactic 
troublesome  and  ambiguous  one  as  ^°^*^^* 
applied  to  poetry.  In  a  sense  most  good  poetry 
teaches  (is,  in  Arnold's  words,  a  "criticism  of 
life")  ;  and  when  we  have  excluded  that  in  which 
the  teaching  is  wholly  veiled  or  incidental,  there 
remains  very  much  which  amounts  to  the  explicit 
communication  of  truth.  Let  the  reader  consider 
these  three  passages ; 


38  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

"  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 
The  soul  that  rises  in  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar." 

"  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained. 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath.    It  is  twice  blest : 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes." 

All  three  are  absolutely  didactic,  literally  speaking, 
and  yet  are  from  three  great  imaginative  poems. 
One  is  from  a  lyric  of  the  ode  type,  another  from  a 
narrative  in  ballad  form,  the  third  from  a  romantic 
drama.  The  presentation  of  truth,  then,  even  in 
direct  form,  may  be  an  element  in  a  poem  of  any 
type;  and  in  any  case  to  classify  a  poem  by  the 
purpose  of  the  poet  would  be  inadequate.  There  is, 
however,  a  class  of  poems,  already  considered  in 
chapter  i,  which  deal  primarily  with  the  presenta- 
tion of  truth,  and  in  doing  so  follow  the  processes 
of  the  reason  rather  than  of  the  imagination;  they 
border,  therefore,  on  the  field  of  the  prose  essay, 
and  cannot  readily  be  associated  with  lyric,  epic,  or 
drama.  When  Dryden  sets  forth  the  proofs  of  the 
divine  origin  of  the  Bible  in  a  passage  such  as 
this, — 


THE  CLASSES  OR  KINDS,  39 

"  If  on  the  book  itself  we  cast  our  view, 
Concurrent  heathens  prove  the  story  true: 
The   doctrine,   miracles ;  which  must  convince, 
For  Heaven  in  them  appeals  to  human  sense ; 
And  though  they  prove  not,  they  confirm  the  cause, 
When  what  is  taught  agrees  with  Nature's  laws," — * 

we  may  call  his  method  didactic  in  a  narrower  sense 
than  in  the  case  of  the  passages  quoted  a  moment 
ago.  And  Wordsworth,  despite  his  usual  reliance 
on  the  methods  of  the  imagination,  occasionally 
gives  us  such  passages  as  that  against  which 
Matthew  Arnold  protested : 

"  This  imperial  realm. 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey; 
Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure. 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains, 
The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth." 

{The  Excursion,   Book   ix.) 

Of  the  same  type  is  some  of  the  poetry  of  Pope, 
much  of  that  of  Young  and  his  contemporaries,  and 
not  a  little  of  that  of  Cowper.  If  this  group  is 
properly  admitted  to  be  within  the  bounds  of  poetry, 
for  reasons  suggested  in  chapter  i,  it  seems  neces- 
sary to  classify  it  separately;  expository  or  essay 

*  Rdigio  Laid,  1 46-1 51. 


40 


^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


poetry  would  perhaps  be  a  more  satisfactory  caption 
than  "  didactic." 

Satiric  poetry  may  also  be  regarded  as  on  the 
border-line  of  the  poetic  realm;  and  since  the  word 
"  satire  "  properly  describes  not  a  form 
poetry.  ^^  much  as  a  spirit  or  a  mode  of  ut- 

terance, it  is  inaccurate  to  use  it  as 
the  name  of  a  poetic  type.  The  importance  of  cer- 
tain great  verse  satires,  however,  notably  those  of 
Dry  den,  Pope,  and  Byron,  has  led  to  the  doubtful 
recognition  of  this  group  as  a  separate  class  of 
poetry.  In  reality,  satiric  poems  will  be  found  to 
fall  ordinarily  into  the  expository  class  just  con- 
sidered; unless,  indeed,  they  take  one  of  the  more 
standard  forms,  such  as  the  epic  (exemplified  in 
Pope's  Ditnciad)  or  the  lyric  (exemplified  in 
Burns's  Louse  on  a  Lady's  Bonnet). 

Another  term  formerly,  but  erroneously,  applied 
as  indicating  a  separate  poetical  class  is  the  pastoral. 
This  sort  of  poetry,  dealing  originally 
poetry.  ^vith  the  realities  of  the  life  of  herds- 

men, shepherds,  and  other  country 
folk,  and  later  with  the  conventionalized  life  of  the 
traditional  ^'  Golden  Age,"  was  exceedingly  popular 
during  the  period  of  classical  imitation  between  the 
latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  and  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  centuries;  and  from  that  period  date  a 
number  of  treatises  dealing  with  it  as  one  of  the 
leading  poetical  types.  We  can  now  see,  not  only 
that  for  genuine  human  emotions  such  an  artificial 


THE  EPIC.  41 

form  has  questionable  value,  but  that  ''  pastoral  "  is 
at  any  rate  a  term  relating  to  subject-matter  or 
style,  and  applicable  to  any  of  the  principal  types. 
We  may  have  a  pastoral  idyl  (as  Tennyson's  Dora), 
a  pastoral  elegy  (as  Milton's  Lycidas),  a  pastoral 
drama  (as  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess),  or 
expository  poetry  of  didactic  or  satiric  quality  under 
the  guise  of  pastoral  description  (as  in  several  of 
the  poems  in  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar).  In 
modern  times  the  life  of  the  humbler  class  of  society 
is  even  more  often  than  formerly  the  theme  of 
poetry,  but  it  is  the  essentially  human  elements  in 
it  * — not  the  accidental  environment — which  fur- 
nish the  poetical  theme. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  a  more  detailed  consideration 
of  the  three  principal  kinds  of  poetry. 

A. — The  Epic. 

Epic  poetry  is  a  term  used  in  two  different  ways : 
first,  as  including  all  strictly  narrative  poetry,  deal- 
ing objectively,  as  we  have  seen,  with 
human   experiences  ;f   secondly,   as   de-   Two  meanings 
scribing  the  most  important  single  form 
of  narrative  poetry,  the  epic  proper,  or  epopee. 

*  As,  for  example,  in  Wordsworth's  Michael,  which  he  called  "  a 
pastoral  poem." 

t  The  etymology  of  the  term  connects  it  with  word,  and  is  perhaps 
due  to  a  discrimination  between  poetry  to  be  spoken  or  recited  and 
that  to  be  sung. 


42 


/iN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


Of  the  epic  in  this  narrower  or  stricter  sense  an 

admirable  definition  is  given  by  Professor  Gayley: 

"  a    dispassionate    recital    in    dignified 

The  national  i      ^i       •  ^-  r 

epic.  rhythmic    narrative    of    a    momentous 

theme  or  action  fulfilled  by  heroic 
characters  and  supernatural  agencies  under  the  con- 
trol of  a  sovereign  destiny."  (Intro,  to  The 
Principles  of  Poetry,  p.  xciv.)  This  is  the  type 
of  poetry  which  in  ancient  times  was  believed  to  be 
greatest,  not  only  because  the  epics  of  Homer 
w^ere  in  every  one's  mind  as  the  greatest  achieve- 
ments of  poetry  know^n  to  man,  but  because  these 
epics  were  so  expressive  of  the  noblest  elements  in 
national  Hfe.  And  this  is  the  most  striking  char- 
acteristic of  the  early  epic :  the  fact  that  it  expresses 
the  lore  and  the  emotions  of  a  whole  people,  rather 
than  of  an  individual.  Thus  Hegel  says :  *'  Its 
basis  and  form  are  determined  by  the  totahty  of  the 
beliefs  and  ideas  of  a  people;"  its  subject  is  some 
past  action  which  "  includes  the  whole  life  of  a 
nation  and  the  history  of  an  epoch."  Such  epics 
as  we  are  here  considering  originally  grew,  rather 
than  were  composed  in  the  modern  sense.  They 
arose  in  the  age  of  wandering  singers,  like  the 
Homer  of  Greek  tradition,  or  the  scop  (minstrel- 
poet)  of  Anglo-Saxon  lore,  w4io  went  about  re- 
peating— now  to  king  and  courtiers,  now  to  more 
humble  assemblies — the  stories  of  the  heroes,  both 
human  and  super-human,  in  w^hom  all  had  an  in- 
terest.    At  length  there  came  a  time  when  some 


THE  EPIC. 


43 


single  artistic  poet  arose,  with  more  capacity  for 
giving  form  to  his  materials  than  his  predecessors, 
and  gave  the  accumulated  epic  materials  their 
finished  shape.  This  is  assumed  to  have  been  the 
history  of  the  Iliad,  the  national  epic  of  the  Greeks ; 
of  the  Song  of  Roland,  the  epic  of  early  France;  of 
Beozvulf,  the  epic  of  early  England. 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  we  may  roughly  divide 
these  epics  into  two  groups:  those  which,   in  the 
form  we  have  them,  represent  the  de- 
velopment of  a  long  period  of  communal    CommTinai 

,        ^  .  ,     ,        ...  and  individual 

composition  and  of  national  tradition,  types  of  epic. 
and  whose  individual  authorship  is 
either  unknown  or  of  comparatively  slight  import- 
ance, and  those  which — though  dealing  also  with  na- 
tional traditions — are  the  product  of  conscious  in- 
dividual art,  the  work  distinctively  of  a  single  poet. 
Of  the  former  class  are  the  three  epics  mentioned  in 
the  previous  paragraph;  also  the  Mahabharata,  the 
epic  of  India ;  the  Kalevala,  the  epic  of  Iceland ;  the 
Niebelungenlicd,  the  epic  of  ancient  Germany;  and 
the  Cid,  the  epic  of  Spain.  In  the  second  class 
some  would  place  the  Odyssey,  since  although,  like 
the  Iliad,  it  is  based  on  traditional  national  lore,  it 
shows  more  unity  and  conscious  artistic  form;  the 
Mneid,  wdiich  was  the  result  of  the  conscious  effort 
of  Vergil  to  give  his  people  a  national  epic;  the 
Jerusalem  Delivered  of  Tasso,  the  effort  of  an 
Italian  poet  to  give  his  race  an  epic,  founded  not  on 
a  national  theme  but  on  the  conquest  of  the  w^orld 


44  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

by  Christianity;  and  the  Paradise  Lost  of  Milton, 
the  similar  effort  of  an  Englishman  to  form  an  epic 
poem  on  the  theme  of  the  creation  and  fall  of  man. 
All  these  poems,  differing  in  so  many  particulars, 
are  alike  in  the  matters  suggested  by  our  definition. 
They  are  all  impersonal  or  objective: 

^uaHties  ^^^^  P°^^  ^^^^  ^^^  °^^^  cmotions  appear 

very  slightly,  if  at  all.  They  all 
deal  with  some  great  action,  whose  greatness  is 
familiar  through  tradition  and  is  concentrated  in 
some  single  heroic  figure;  they  all  include  not  only 
the  deeds  of  man,  but  supernatural  occurrences  and 
mythical  or  divine  characters, — in  some  cases  be- 
cause these  were  universally  believed  in  at  the  time 
of  the  poet's  writing,  in  other  cases  because  they 
had  become  a  part  of  the  epic  story,  and  lent  it 
dignity  and  completeness.  In  all  cases  they  appeal 
either  to  national  ideals,  or  to  ideals  which  have 
taken  their  place  in  some  measure, — like  that  of  the 
worldly  empire  of  Christ,  as  in  the  case  of  Tasso, 
or  the  spiritual  government  of  God,  as  in  the  case 
of  Milton.  When  one  considers  the  dignity  of 
theme,  the  lofty  style  and  magnitude  of  action, 
characteristic  of  these  poems,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
for  many  centuries  it  was  held  that  epic  (or,  as  it 
came  to  be  called,  "heroic")  poetry  was  the 
highest  achievement  of  the  poetic  art. 

The   best    authorities    on    the    epic    are   Aristotle's 
Poetics,  chapters  xxiii  and  xxiv;  the  treatise  of  Le 


THE  EPIC.  45 

Bossu,  who  in  1675  formulated  the  doctrines  of  class- 
ical criticism  on  the  subject ;  the  discussion  of  Dry- 
den  in  the  Preface  to  his  Virgil;  the  discussion  of 
Hegel  (represented  in  Benard's  work,  already  cited)  ; 
the  article  on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britan- 
nica,  by  Theodore  Watts ;  that  on  the  Epic  in  the 
Universal  Encyclopedia  by  Professor  A.  R.  Marsh ; 
Ker's  Epic  and  Romance;  and  Clark's  History  of  Epic 
Poetry.  Aristotle's  definition  of  the  epic  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  very  simple  conception  of  the  form 
prevalent  in  his  time :  it  is  distinguished  from  the 
drama  by  being  **  narrative  in  form  and  employ- 
ing a  single  metre."  This  unity  of  metrical  form 
has  been  characteristic  almost  throughout  its  his- 
tory in  every  language,  and  is  of  course  due  to  the 
sense  of  unity  and  continuity  necessary  for  the 
success  of  an  elaborate  story.  Aristotle's  principal 
rule  for  the  structure  is  also  fundamental :  the  sub- 
ject must  be  "  a  single  action,  whole  and  complete, 
with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end."  The  ob- 
jective standpoint  is  also  clearly  indicated,  in  the  rule 
that  the  poet  should  speak  as  little  as  possible  in  his 
own  person.  Le  Bossu's  definition  of  the  epic  shows 
the  falsely  didactic  view  of  poetry  assumed  in  the 
neo-classical  period :  "  a  discourse  invented  by  art, 
to  form  the  manners  by  such  instructions  as  are  dis- 
guised under  the  allegories  of  some  one  important 
action,  which  is  related  in  verse,  after  a  probable,  di- 
verting, and  surprising  manner."  (English  transla- 
tion of  1695.)  On  the  structure,  Le  Bossu  tells  us  that 
the  conflict  necessary  for  developing  the  action  is  found 
in  the  endeavors  of  the  hero  for  accomplishing  his  de- 
sign, and  the  endeavors  of  those  against  it ;  these,  with 
the  successful  solution,  form  the  beginning,  middle, 
and  end  demanded  by  Aristotle.    Another  interesting 


46  ^>/  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

suggestion  is  that  the  length  of  the  action  of  the  epic, 
in  contrast  with  the  tragedy,  makes  necessary  its  less 
violent  action  and  its  happy  termination.  Hegel's  dis- 
cussion is  of  chief  interest  for  its  emphasis  on  the 
national  spirit.  It  is  necessary,  he  observes,  that  the 
epic  poet  should  live  in  the  very  ideas  and  beliefs  which 
form  the  substance  of  his  age ;  if  this  affinity  between 
the  spirit  of  his  time  and  the  event  described  does 
not  exist,  his  poem  as  an  epic  will  be  incongruous, — 
a  consideration  full  of  suggestiveness  in  connection 
with  such  modern  attempts  at  revived  epic  as  those 
of  Southey.  Hegel's  remarks  on  the  difference  be- 
tween the  action  of  epic  and  tragedy  are  also  of  in- 
terest: in  the  drama,  external  circumstances  have  an 
importance  dependent  on  the  way  in  which  they  ex- 
hibit the  will  and  passions  of  the  actors,  while  in  the 
epic,  external  circumstances  are  equally  important 
with  the  interior  will,  and  even  the  more  inward 
action  resembles  an  external  pageant  passing  before 
the  eyes.  In  other  words,  the  drama  presents  indi- 
vidual rights,  though  perhaps  in  conflict  with  neces- 
sity; the  epic  shows  individual  action  swallowed  up  in 
the  universal  dominion  of  necessity.  Finally,  we 
should  notice  Hegel's  famous  remark  in  illustration  of 
the  difiference  between  the  objective  character  of  the 
epic  and  the  subjective  character  of  the  lyric:  that  we 
are  ignorant  of,  and  comparatively  indifferent  to,  the 
authorship  of  the  Homeric  poems,  whereas  we  are 
equally  ignorant  of  and  indifferent  to  the  personality 
of  the  heroes  of  the  lyrics  of  Pindar.  In  Watts's  dis- 
cussion of  the  epic  the  most  original  matter  is  that  on 
the  difference  between  the  epics  of  the  eastern  and 
the  western  peoples.  It  is  only  in  the  Niehehingenlied, 
he  believes,  that  a  western  epic  poet  has  shown  real 
unity  of  purpose  combined  with  freedom  of  movement. 


THE  EPIC.  47 

On  the  other  hand  the  heroes  of  the  western  epics  are 
more  truly  heroic  fighters,  and  show  a  Titanic  spirit 
of  revolt  against  authority,  of  which  the  Satan  of 
Milton  is  the  most  sublime  embodiment. 

In  modern  times  the  epic  has  wholly  failed  to 
maintain  the  important  place  which  it  has  had  in  the 
early  period  of  almost  every  nation,  and 
the  history  of  the  attempts  to  revive  it  fp7cY°e!^^ 
by  conscious  effort  is  for  the  most  part 
the  history  of  a  series  of  failures, — many  of  them 
beautiful  and  important  failures,  but  none  the  less 
failures.  The  reasons  for  this  are  not  far  to  seek. 
In  the  first  place,  national  spirit,  in  the  simple  emo- 
tional sense  in  which  we  use  it  of  primitive  peoples, 
decays  with  civilization,  and  ceases  to  gather  about 
heroic  figures  and  early  racial  traditions.  We  strip 
the  mystery  and  the  reverence  from  the  past,  as 
intelligence  advances,  and  there  is  no  great  English 
king  whom  we  all  recognize  as  the  historic  leader 
of  the  race;  for  our  nearest  approach  to  it  we  go 
to  Arthur, — not  an  Englishman  at  all,  but  an  early 
Briton, — and  recognize  frankly  that  we  do  this 
only  for  poetical  purposes.  Secondly,  the  remark- 
able development  of  the  subjective  spirit  more  and 
more  turns  aw^ay  our  interest  from  the  mere  deeds  of 
men  to  their  character,  emotions,  and  spiritual 
development,  which  other  forms  of  poetry  treat 
far  better  than  the  epic.  For  this  reason  even 
those  modern  poems  wdiich  profess  to  be  epics,  like 
Spenser's   Faerie    Queene   and    Milton's   Paradise 


48  ^J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Lost,  become  epics  of  the  inner  rather  than  the 
outer  world.*  Thirdly,  the  huge  scale  on  which  a 
great  epic  was  produced  unfits  it  for  the  more  con- 
centrated expression  of  an  age  when  literature  is 
abundant,  and  when  the  recital  of  poetry  has  given 
way  to  rapid  reading.  Fourthly,  the  enormous 
development  of  prose  fiction  in  modern  times 
satisfies  the  instinct  for  story  to  which  the  epic 
formerly  ministered,  and  poetry  has  turned  more 
and  more  to  the  satisfaction  of  needs  which  cannot 
be  met  adequately  in  prose.  The  epic  poems  of 
South ey,  such  as  The  Curse  of  Kehama  and 
Roderick,  together  with  the  Gehir  of  Landor,  are 
examples  of  modern  efforts  to  revive  the  form, 
transferring  into  English  poetry  epic  interests 
drawn  from  other  peoples,  but  with  comparatively 
small  success.  More  successful  are  the  epic  frag- 
ments, in  which  such  an  effort  is  concentrated  into 
the  presentation  of  a  mere  episode  of  almost  lyrical 
unity, — poems  like  Landor' s  Agamemnon  and 
Iphigeneia  and  Arnold's  Sohrah  and  Rustuin. 

*  Compare  the  remark  of  a  recent  writer,  Dr.  H.  B.  Alexander, 
to  the  effect  that  the  communal  ideals  of  early  poetry  '*  resulted 
from  the  limitations  of  a  society  in  which  the  individual  existed  for 
the  community  and  subordinated  his  desires  to  its  will.  And  it  is 
just  because  we  have  outgrown  the  stage,  the  milieti,  which  they 
were  adapted  to  celebrate,  that  the  epic  and  ballad  have  ceased  to 
be  natural  vehicles  for  poetic  expression.  Only  in  man's  subordi- 
nation to  world  fate  is  there  a  relation  sufficiently  analogous  to  war- 
rant epical  celebration  ;  and  so  it  is  that  in  its  maturer  ages  the 
world  has  produced  but  two  great  epic  poems,  the  cosmical  epics  of 
Dante  and  Milton."     {Poetry  and  the  Individual,  p.  II.) 


THE  EPIC. 


49 


We  have  next  to  consider  certain  poems  which 
approximate  to  the  epic  type,  though  they  lack  its 
artistic  form  and  significance.  From 
early  periods  there  are  the  lays*  of  Jp"\'ypr°^ 
popular  heroes, — brief  epics,  one  might 
call  them,  without  the  dignity  of  national  feeling. 
Such  is  the  familiar  lay  of  King  Horn,  a  hero  of 
the  mediaeval  period  in  England.  Again,  there  are 
chronicle  poems,  summarizing  national  history  in 
verse,  often  possessed  of  epic  length,  but  without 
its  unity  either  from  having  a  single  hero  or  other- 
wise. Of  this  the  principal  early  example  is  the 
Brut  of  Layamon,  a  poem  dating  from  the  end  of 
the  twelfth  century,  and  outlining  the  legendary 
history  of  England  from  the  days  of  Brutus.  Some- 
what akin  to  these  are  the  historical  poems  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  such  as  Daniel's  Civil  Wars,  a, 
verse  narrative  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and 
Drayton's  Mortimcriad  or  Barons'  U^ars,  of  which 
the  former  title  was  intended  to  suggest  a  genuine 
epic  quality  and  a  central  hero. 

Very  different  from  these  types,  because  its  in- 
terest is  with  the  inner  life  of  the  hero,  not  with 
outward  action,  is  such  a  spiritual  or  psychological 
epic  as  Browning's  Sordcllo,  of  which  the  author 


*  The  word  lay  properly  means  a  lyrical  poem,  akin  to  a  song,  but 
is  commonly  applied  to  narrative  poems  of  the  type  indicated, 
which  were  no  doubt  often  chanted  or  sung  by  wandering  minstrels. 
Cf.  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 


50  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

wrote :     ''  My   stress   lay    on   the    incidents   in   the 
development  of  a  soul." 

A  curious  separate  type  is  the  mock-heroic  poem, 
or  mock  epic,  which  tells  a  story  in  the  epic  manner 
for  purposes  of  ridicule.  This  was 
The  mock  epic,  known  even  to  the  Greeks.  In  Eng- 
lish literature  the  most  important  mock 
epics  are  Butler's  Hudibras  and  Pope's  Rape  of  the 
Lock. 

To  return  to  more  primitive  forms  of  narrative, 
the  chief  of  them  is  the  ballad — a  term  very  loosely 
used,  but  most  properly  applied  to  a 
The  ballad.  brief  popular  narrative  poem  on  a 
romantic  theme.  The  early  ballads 
represent  the  same  communal  stage  of  poetry  as  the 
early  epic :  many  of  them  may  have  had  individual 
authors,  but  these  are  totally  lost  in  their  work,  and 
spoke  for  the  whole  community  which  they  repre- 
sented. These  ballads,  too,  take  us  back  to  the  time 
when  narrative  and  lyrical  poetry  were  as  yet  hardly 
separated.  Many  of  them  must  originally  have 
been  sung;  in  others  there  is  a  refrain  which  may 
have  been  sung  by  the  company  while  the  more 
purely  narrative  portion  was  recited.    For  example : 


"  Oh  did  ye  ever  hear  o'  brave  Earl  Brand  ? 
Ay  Idly,  a  lilly  lally. 
He  courted  the  king's  daughter  of  fair  England 
All  t    the  night  so  early." 
(Gummere's  Old  English  Ballads,  p.  206.) 


THE  EPIC.  5, 

The  themes  of  the  ballads  are  few  and  simple, — 
chivalrous    adventure,     fairies    and    ghosts,     love 
(happy  or  tragic),  and  the  like, — and 
for  the  most  part  they  profess  no  na-    ^f^^^^^^ 
tional    significance,    although    in    some 
cases,  such  as  the  Battle  of  Otterbuni,  a  really  im- 
portant event  is  the  subject.    The  imaginative  value 
of  many  of  these  narratives,  as  seen  especially  in 
the  treatment  of  tragic  situations,  and  the  dramatic 
power  shown  in  the  telling  of  them,  are  very  great ; 
after  centuries  of  neglect,  they  are  now  recognized 
as  among  the  treasures  of  early  English  poetry. 

Imitations  of  the  ballads,  made  in  the  days  of 
conscious  literary  poetry,  are  rarely  successful,  but 
to  this  the  ballads  of  Scott  are  a  not- 
able exception ;  and  certain  other  poets   ^'l^V 

.  ^  ballada. 

have  made  use  of  their  form  and 
manner  in  important  instances,  as  Keats  in  La 
Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  and  Rossetti  in  Sister  Helen. 
Of  modern  poems  in  the  ballad  manner  the  greatest 
beyond  question  is  Coleridge's  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  which  combines  the  marvelous  simplicity 
of  primitive  poetry  with  the  profound  suggestive- 
ness  of  more  intensive  modern  art. 

The  metrical  romance  or  tale  is  another  import- 
ant type  belonging  to  this  group,  which  had  an  early 
origin  and  has  never  wholly  failed  to  be 
a    popular    form.      It    is    distinguished    ^^®  metrical 
from    the    epic   by   being   less    formal, 
less  dignified  in  theme,  less  extensive  in  scope,  and 


52  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

usually  by  the  fact  that  it  emphasizes  not  so  much 
heroic  deeds  as  the  more  romantic  episodes  of 
chivalrous  adventure  and  love.  Of  this  the  earliest 
important  example  in  our  literature  is  an  anony- 
mous poem  of  the  fourteenth  century,  called  Sir 
Gcrcvain  and  the  Green  Knight  (lately  paraphrased 
in  modern  English  verse),  while  in  the  same 
period  were  produced  the  romances  of  Chaucer 
(including  both  the  long  and  elaborate  Troiliis  and 
Cressida  *  and  the  shorter  tales  of  the  Canter- 
bury series),  the  greatest  master  of  pure  story 
poetry  that  has  appeared  in  England.  Of  modern 
poets  Dryden,  Scott,  Byron,  and  William  Morris 
are  the  chief  masters  of  the  metrical  romance; 
while  others  have  remade  old  romances  into  later 
poetry,  as  Matthew  Arnold  and  Swinburne  W'ith 
the  story  of  Tristram  and  Iseult.  Of  all  the 
romances  none,  perhaps,  have  found  so  many  readers 
so  continuously  as  Scott's  Marmion  and  Lady 
of  the  Lake  and  Longfellow's  Evangeline.  To 
Byron  we  owe  a  variety  of  this  form  corresponding 
to  the  mock  or  burlesque  epic, — the  mock  or  ironic 
romance,  represented  by  Don  Juan,  wdiich  combines 
in   one   extraordinary   blending   brilliant   narrative 


*  Troilus  and  Cressida  shows  a  tendency  toward  satiric  criticism 
of  life,  and  a  realism  of  detail,  which  almost  tempt  one  to  call  it  a 
novel  in  verse  rather  than  a  pure  romance.  Of  modern  novels  in 
verse — a  form  whose  legitimacy  is  hardly  established — interesting 
examples  are  Clough's  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolich  and  Lytton's 
Lucile. 


THE  EPIC.  53 

power,  romantic  beauty,  laughing  burlesque,  and 
invective  satire.  It  is  worth  noting  that,  while  both 
the  ballad  and  the  epic  have  usually  followed  single 
metrical  forms  of  great  simplicity,  the  greater  com- 
plexity and  variety  of  the  romance  (content  to  miss 
the  sustained  dignity  of  the  epic)  have  usually  been 
marked  by  a  wide  variety  of  metrical  forms.* 

There  remains  a  considerable  variety  of  narrative 
poems  which  it  is  impossible  to  define  or  classify 
with  accuracy.     They  may  partake  of 
the    nature    of    the     epic    in     dis^nitv    0^^^^°/^- 

^  ^  ^       "      rative  forms. 

and  method,  but  lack  its  wide  scope 
and  completeness :  of  this  sort  are  the  separate 
poems  in  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King,  and 
Matthew  Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustuni.  (Of  these 
the  former  is  also  distinguished  from  the  true  epic 
by  its  essentially  reflective  and  spiritual  character; 
the  latter  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect  reproduction 
in  modern  poetry  of  the  simple  objectivity  of  the 
ancient  epic  style.)  They  may  be  designed  to  show 
how  the  epic  manner  may  be  applied  to  simple, 
familiar  themes,  like  Wordsworth's  Michael  and  the 
less  successful  Dora  of  Tennyson.     They  may  re- 


*  vScott,  in  the  Introduction  to  T^e  BriJal  of  Triertnaiu,  said: 
*'  According  to  the  author's  idea  of  romantic  poetry,  as  distinguished 
from  epic,  the  former  comprehends  a  fictitious  narrative,  framed  and 
combined  at  the  pleasure  of  the  writer;  beginning  and  ending  as  he 
may  judge  best;  which  neither  exacts  nor  refuses  the  use  of  super- 
natural machinery ;  which  is  free  from  the  technical  rules  of  the 
epee  ;  and  is  subject  only  to  those  which  good  sense,  good  taste,  and 
good  morals  apply  to  every  species  of  poetry  without  exception." 


54  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

semble  the  ballad  in  the  greater  brevity,  rapidity, 
and  lyrical  enthusiasm  of  their  form,  like  Tenny- 
son's Revenge  and  Browning's  Herve  Riel.  Or, 
they  may  rather  resemble  the  metrical  romance  in 
their  love  of  romantic  details  and  freedom  of  struc- 
ture, like  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Arnold's  For- 
saken  Merman,  and  Burns's  Tarn  O'Shanter.  The 
lyrical  ballad,  in  which  the  story  related  is  evi- 
dently merely  a  means  to  the  presentation  of  a  par- 
ticular emotion,  has  been  discussed  in  an  earlier 
paragraph.  Finally,  we  may  note  the  verse  fable,  a 
brief  narrative  poem,  usually  dealing  with  events 
of  a  supernatural  or  extra-natural  character,  de- 
signed to  illustrate  a  specific  moral  lesson.  Ad- 
mirable English  fables  in  verse  are  those  of  John 
Gay;  Leigh  Hunt's  Ahou  ben  Adhem  is  an  example 
of  a  somewhat  different  sort. 

As  a  kind  of  pendant  to  this  epical  group  we  may 
consider  that  class  of  poems  which  are  descriptive 

rather  than  narrative  in  their  principal 
^,^f^^l        character,— poems     in     which     objects 

or  scenes,  rather  than  events,  form 
the  subject-matter,  but  which  (see  page  34  above) 
follow  the  epic  method  of  moving  through  space 
and  perhaps  time  in  the  presentation  of  their  ma- 
terial. For  this  class  Wordsworth  proposed  the 
name  Idyllium,*  which  has  never  become  naturalized 

*  The  term  "  Idyl  "  is  very  loosely  used, — most  commonly  of  de- 
scriptive-narrative poems  in  a  pastoral  setting,  Tennyson's  Idylls 
of  the  King  is  not  a  characteristic  instance. 


THE  LYRIC,  55 

in  English.  Great  examples  are  Thomson's 
Seasons,  presenting  the  progress  of  nature  through 
the  cycle  of  the  year ;  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village 
and  Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  in  which 
human  society  in  a  particular  setting  forms  the 
theme;  and  Chaucer's  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  in  which  particular  individuals — who  are 
nevertheless  representative  of  the  whole  view  of 
English  society  in  their  age — are  described.  In  all 
these  poems  narrative  elements  are  used  to  aid  in 
presenting  the  descriptive.  Here  also  we  must 
probably  place  Byron's  CJiilde  Harold,  which  begins 
as  a  genuine  epic,  centering  the  interest  in  a  hero, 
but  presently  becomes  purely  descriptive,  the  hero 
serving  as  a  mere  link  to  connect  the  various  scenes 
which  he  is  presumed  to  have  viewed;  this  is  per- 
haps the  most  vividly  emotional,  if  not  the  most 
imaginative,  descriptive  poem  in  the  language. 

B. — The  Lyric. 

Like  the  word  epic,  the  word  lyric  is  used  in  both 
a  general  and  a  more  particular  sense,  having  grad- 
ually  been   extended    from   its   original 
meaning, —  a   poem   to   be  sung  by   a    Jf^°i™®g^J°^^ 
single  singer, — to  include  all  poetry  ex- 
pressing subjectively  the  emotion  of  the  poet   or 
those  whom  he  represents.     In  this  larger  sense  it 
has  come  to  include  the  great  bulk  of  modern  poetry, 


56  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

— SO  much  SO  that  Professor  Guinmere  is  led  to 
observe :  *'  The  history  of  modern  verse,  with  epic 
and  drama  in  decay,  is  mainly  the  history  of  lyrical 
sentiment."  (Beginnings  of  Poetry,  p.  147.)  To 
classify  satisfactorily  the  great  body  of  this  lyrical 
poetry  is  even  more  difficult  than  in  the  case  of 
narrative  poetry.  One  thing  its  various  forms  have 
in  common :  the  expression  of  a  single  emotion  or 
imaginative  conception. 

The  subjective  or  personal  standpoint  of  the  lyric 
must  not  be  understood  to  imply  either  that  it  is 
necessarily  autobiographical  or  that   it 
chjwacten  represents    the    emotion    of    an    indiv- 

idual standing  quite  by  himself.  For 
the  poet,  like  other  artists,  is  capable  of  entering 
into  the  experiences  of  the  rest  of  humanity,  not 
simply  of  recording  his  own;  or,  to  look  at  it  from 
the  opposite  standpoint,  he  makes  the  experiences 
of  others  his  own  by  means  of  his  imaginative  sym- 
pathy. In  the  most  primitive  conditions,  the  lyrical 
poet,  like  the  epic  poet,  represents  not  himself  so 
much  as  the  whole  company  of  his  fellows  for 
whom  he  sings  and  whom  he  leads  in  song;  and 
again  in  the  very  highest  poetry  he  speaks  not 
simply  for  himself  but  for  the  universal  instincts 
of  humanity.  The  earliest  English  song  that  has 
survived  is  a  sone  of  summer  and  the  cuckoo: 


"  Sumer  is  icumen  in, 
Lhude  sing  cuccu  !  " 


THE  LYRIC.  cy 

Here  the  nameless  poet  spoke  for  the  pervading 
sense  of  joy  in  the  season  which  was  felt  by  the 
whole  community  and  which  they  would  join  in 
expressing.  If  we  compare  this  song  with  that 
great  sonnet  of  Shakspere's,  beginning — 

"  When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, — " 

we  see  that  the  latter,  while  it  represents  a  maturer 
sentiment  and  a  more  personal  emotion,  is  still  the 
voice  through  which  a  common  experience  of  hu- 
manity makes  itself  felt.  It  does  not  at  all  follow 
that  Shakspere  was  ''  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 
men's  eyes  "  at  the  time  he  wrote  it.*  Other  great 
lyrics,  however,  such  as  Burns's  To  Mary  in 
Heaven,  Byron's  Stanzas  to  Augusta,  Milton's 
Sonnet  On  his  Blindness,  and  the  lyrics  of  Tenny- 
son's In  Memoriam,  are  known  to  be  the  definite 
outcome  of  personal  experiences. 

Being   thus    the   record   of   a   single 
emotion,    and   not   dependent,    like   the   f^^i'T'^ 
epic  and  the  drama,  upon  the  develop- 
ment of  a  series  of  events  or  the  presentation  of 


*  A  striking  example  of  this  non-autobiographical  character  of 
poetry  which  is  none  the  less  saturated  with  personal  feeling  is  found 
in  the  "  Lucy  "  poems  of  Wordsworth,  which  were  written,  so  far  as 
has  been  discovered,  without  the  slightest  basis  in  his  own  experi- 
ence. Yet  this  is  a  point  where  individual  poetic  characters  differ; 
with  such  a  poet  as  Shelley  we  may  be  sure  that  every  lyric  is  the 
record  of  a  real  experience,  however  transitory. 


58  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

character  in  completeness,  the  lyric  has  a  more  ab- 
solute unity  than  any  of  the  other  forms  of  poetry, 
and  is  usually — except  where  the  intellectual  or 
reflective  element  is  present  to  a  marked  degree — 
decidedly  brief.  Its  structure  may  be  said  to  de- 
pend in  part  upon  its  relation  to  the  outer  and  the 
inner  worlds.  Simplest  of  all  is  the  lyric  that  re- 
mains in  the  outer  world,  though  it  expresses  the 
inward  emotion  aroused  by  it;  an  example  of  this 
type  is  the  old  English  song  referred  to  in  the  pre- 
vious paragraph,  which  begins  and  ends  with  the 
coming  of  summer  and  the  cuckoo.  More  familiar 
is  the  lyric  which  takes  its  beginning  at  a  point  in 
the  outer  world,  but  passes  to  the  invisible  world 
of  emotional  reflection;  of  this  type  a  great  example 
is  Keats's  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  which  takes  its 
point  of  departure  at  the  visible  object,  and 
passes  to  profoundly  emotional  reflection  on  the 
immortality  of  the  spirit  of  beauty.  Or,  still 
further,  we  may  have  the  lyric  which  is  wholly  of 
the  inner  life,  like  certain  of  Shakspere's  sonnets 
(for  example,  that  beginning  ''Poor  soul,  the 
center  of  my  sinful  earth").  Lyrics  of  this  last 
class  are  most  likely  to  be  reflective,  and  hence  to 
move  furthest  away  from  the  pure  or  song  type. 

Finally,  we  may  note  that  the  forms 

fheTyrL  ^^  lyrical  poetry  are  more  varied  than 

those  of  any  of  the  classes.     Originally 

they   adapt   themselves   to   all   manner   of   musical 

melodies  and  accompaniments,  and  when,  separating 


THE  LYRIC. 


59 


from  music,  they  become  purely  literary,  they  pre- 
serve this  variety  and  adaptability.  The  lyric  has 
no  need  of  the  sustained  dignity  of  the  continuous 
metrical  movement  of  epic  poetry;  it  requires  more 
rapid  measures,  adapting  themselves  to  its  more 
direct  and  brilliant  emotional  expression,  and  for 
this  expression  all  the  possibilities  of  rhythmical  art 
are  drawn  upon.  There  is  no  lyrical  mood  so 
serious,  so  merry,  so  stirring,  so  languid,  that  it 
does  not  find  its  appropriate  metrical  form.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  brevity  and  concentration  of 
the  lyric  demand  a  finer  finish,  a  more  cameo-like 
accuracy  of  form,  than  the  other  classes  of  poetry; 
hence,  within  the  form  chosen,  the  lyrical  poet  is 
allowed  less  flexibility  and  freedom  than  the  writer 
of  either  epic  or  dramatic  verse.  A  familiar  poetic 
license  in  epic  or  dramatic  poetry  becomes  a  con- 
spicuous fault  in  a  lyric.  The  type  is  one  forever 
aspiring  after  infinite  riches  and  perfect  beauty  "  in 
a  little  room." 


The  most  useful  discussions  of  lyrical  poetry  will 
be  found  in  Hegel's  work ;  Werner's  Lyrik  und  Ly- 
riker;  Gummere's  Beginnings  of  Poetry  (especially 
the  chapter  on  **  the  Differencing  Elements  of  Art  ")  ; 
Dr.  John  Erskine's  Elizabethan  Lyric  (chapter  i,  on 
"Lyrical  Quality  and  Lyric  Form");  the  Introduc- 
tions to  Schelling's  Elizabethan  Lyrics  and  Seven- 
teenth Century  Lyrics;  the  Introduction  to  Carpenter's 
volume  of  selections  called  E)iglish  Lyric  Poetry;  and 
the    Introduction    to    Palgrave's    Golden    Treasury. 


6o  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Hegel's  discussion  is  marked  by  an  emphasis  of  the 
subjective  and  individual  element,  in  contrast  to  epic. 
*'  The  basis  of  the  lyrical  work  cannot  be  the  devel- 
opment of  an  action  in  which  a  whole  world  is  re- 
flected in  all  the  richness  of  its  manifestations,  but  the 
soul  of  a  man ;  more  than  this,  of  the  man  as  an  in- 
dividual, placed  in  individual  situations."  "  Man  him- 
self becomes  a  work  of  art ;  whereas  for  the  epic  poet 
the  subject  is  a  hero  outside  of  himself."  *'  The  soul 
of  the  poet  is  then  to  be  considered  as  the  real  principle 
of  unity  for  a  lyrical  poem.  On  the  one  hand  there 
is  necessary  a  definite  situation  of  the  soul ;  in  the 
next  place,  the  poet  must  identify  himself  with  that 
situation."  (Benard's  paraphrase,  i,  pp.  245,  257, 
280.)  Here  Hegel  seems  to  recognize  too  slightly 
the  representative  character  of  the  lyrical  poet,  both 
in  primitive  times  and  elsewhere.  In  another  pas- 
sage, however,  he  points  out  that  in  popular  national 
poetry  "  the  poet  is  a  mere  organ  by  means  of  which 
the  national  life  manifests  itself."  {Ibid.,  p.  264.) 
Another  remark  of  Hegel's,  that  the  most  perfectly 
lyrical  poem  is  one  representing  "  a  sentiment  of  the 
heart  concentrated  in  a  particular  situation,"  is  closely 
parallel  to  Palgrave's  requirement  that  each  poem  ad- 
mitted to  his  collection  of  lyrics  "  shall  turn  on  some 
single  thought,  feeling,  or  situation.  In  accordance 
with  this,  narrative,  descriptive,  and  didactic  poems, 
unless  accompanied  by  rapidity  of  movement,  brevity, 
and  the  colouring  of  human  passion,  have  been  ex- 
cluded." (Pref.  to  The  Golden  Treasury.)  The  re- 
quirement of  brevity  is  further  emphasized  by  Schell- 
ing,  who  holds  that  **  by  its  very  conditions  the  lyric 
must  be  short,  as  an  emotion  prolonged  beyond  a  pleas- 
urable length  will  defeat  its  own  artistic  aim."  {Eliz. 
Lyrics,  p.  ix.)  A  similar  position  is  taken  by  Erskine, 


15 


UyL*- 


THE  LYRIC,  6l 

who,  in  discussing  the  unity  of  the  lyric  which  depends 
on  the  maintenance  of  a  single  ''  lyric  stimulus,"  sug- 
gests that  "  many  long  poems,  which  in  quality  are 
undoubtedly  lyrical,  in  form  should  be  considered  a 
series  of  lyric  units  rather  than  one  song," — for  ex- 
ample, Spenser's  Epithalaniiiiin.  All  this  is  to  keep 
closely  to  the  original  song  type  of  lyric ;  but  when 
we  have  in  view  the  larger  class,  it  is  clear  that  many 
poems  have  an  emotional  unity  of  theme,  and  are 
yet  built  up  by  an  elaborate  structure  which  an  added 
intellectual  element  may  help  to  determine.  In  Ersk- 
ine's  discussion  may  further  be  found  an  original  and 
suggestive  passage  on  the  structure  of  the  successful 
lyric,  which,  it  is  held,  should  have  three  parts.  "  In 
the  first,  the  emotional  stimulus  is  given — the  object, 
the  situation,  or  the  thouglit  from  which  the  song 
arises.  In  the  second  part  the  emotion  is  developed 
to  its  utmost  capacity,  until  as  it  begins  to  flag  the 
intellectual  element  reasserts  itself.  In  the  third  part, 
the  emotion  is  finally  resolved  into  a  thought,  a  mental 
resolution,  or  an  attitude."     {The  Eliz.  Lyric,  p.  17.)        -C    ^ 

To  classify  lyrical  poems,   as  has  already  been 
said,  is  even  more  difficult  than  in  the  case  of  nar- 
rative poetry:   the  differences  between 
the  types  seem  to  be  less  distinct.     An   Methods  of 

•'  ^  _  classification. 

obvious  method,  which  does  not  take 
us  very  far,  is  to  group  them  according  to  their 
theme :  lyrics  of  love,  of  grief,  of  patriotism,  of 
nature,  and  the  like.  Another  method,  less  super- 
ficial than  it  might  seem  to  be,  is  to  group  accord- 
ing to  metrical  forms :  lyrics  in  song  stanzas,  in  the 
elegiac  or  heroic  stanza,  in  various  short  stanzas, 


X 


62  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

odes,  sonnets,  ballades,  rondeaus,  and  so  forth. 
But  if  we  wish  a  classification  somewhat  less 
mechanical  than  either  of  these,  we  may  perhaps 
distinguish  between  those  lyrics  which  keep  closest 
to  the  original  song  type,  and  those  which  move 
further  and  further  away  from  this  in  the  direction 
of  the  more  formal  or  reflective  expression  of 
emotion. 

The  first  group,  then,  will  be  formed  of  the  true 
song  lyrics, — those  which  are  fitted  by  nature  to 

musical  utterance.  These  are  more 
Song  lyrics.        purely   emotional   than   those   of   other 

groups,  more  spontaneous  and  rapid  in 
utterance,  more  simple  in  style,  and  are  likely  to  be 
more  brief.  Sometimes  their  simplicity  is  such  that 
they  seem  almost  purely  a  vehicle  for  the  expression 
of  emotion  through  music,  and  will  not  show  their 
worth  when  tested  by  mere  reading.  It  is  in  the 
earlier  periods  of  poetry,  when  emotions  are 
simpler  and  less  mingled  with  intellectual  ideas,  and 
when  music  is  a  more  generally  diffused  art,  that 
these  song  lyrics  are  at  their  best.  In  the  Eliza- 
bethan age  these  conditions  were  combined  with  a 
high  development  of  poetical  imagination  and 
poetical  style;  hence  those  English  lyrics  which  are 
true  songs,  and  at  the  same  time  have  permanent 
literary  worth,  date  more  numerously  from  that 
period  than  from  any  other.  Great  examples  are 
certain  of  the  songs  of  Shakspere, — 0  Mistress 
Mine,   Come  unto   these   Yellow  Sands,    Who   is 


THE  LYRIC.  63 

Sylvia,  and  Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark, — together  with 
Sidney's  My  True  Love  Hath  my  Heart,  Nash's 
Spring,  the  Sweet  Spring,  Dekker's  O  Szveet  Con- 
tent, and  Jonson's  Drink  to  me  Only  with  thine 
Eyes.  In  the  modern  period  the  lyric  of  this  type 
has  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  difficult  and  rarest 
of  all  forms  of  poetry,  and  only  one  author,  Burns, 
has  done  much  work  in  it  of  the  first  quality.  To 
Burns  the  song  lyric  was  what  it  was  to  primitive 
man :  he  composed  his  songs  not  as  literature,  on 
paper,  but  as  audible  utterance  to  melodies  already 
flowing  in  his  mind.  Besides  those  of  Burns, 
notable  songs  by  modern  poets  are  Scott's  imita- 
tions of  the  popular  Scottish  ballad-songs  (Proud 
Maisie  being  perhaps  the  best),  Shelley's  Indian 
Serenade,  Tennyson's  Szveet  and  Lozv,  and  Brown- 
ing's Cavalier  Tunes. 

A  particular  type  of  the  song  lyric  is  found  in  the 
hymn,  devoted  to  the  emotions  of  religion  and  usu- 
ally intended   for  choral  utterance,   al- 
though in  form  of  expression  it  may  be   The  hymn, 
as  personal  as  any  lyrical  type.     Hymns 
of  permanent  literary  value  are  very  rare, — chiefly, 
no  doubt,  because  the  statement  of  religious  doc- 
trine is  likely  to  increase  the  expository  element  to 
the  danger  of  the  imaginative.     Those  of  the  early 
church    were    in    Latin,    and    among   the    best  of 
English  hymns  are  translations  of  these,   such  as 
Neale's  Jerusalem  the  Golden  and  Ellerton's  Wel- 
come Happy  Morning.    In  successful  hymns  of  this 


64  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

character,  some  doctrine  of  the  church,  or  some 
aspiration  of  the  individual  spirit,  gives  form  to  a 
simple  emotion  which  finds  noble  lyrical  expression. 
Among  the  great  original  English  hymns  are  some 
of  Charles  Wesley's  (notably  Jesus,  Lover  of  my 
Soul),  some  of  Cowper's  (such  as  0  for  a  Closer 
JJ^alk  zvith  God),  Heber's  The  Son  of  God  Goes 
Forth  to  JVar,  Stone's  The  Church's  One  Founda- 
tion, and  How's  For  all  the  Saints  who  from  their 
Labors  Rest.  Other  religious  lyrics,  not  intended 
originally  as  hymns,  have  been  used  for  choral  w^or- 
ship,  and  will  doubtless  always  be  remembered  in 
connection  with  the  appropriate  music;  examples  of 
this  sort  are  Newman's  Lead  Kindly  Light  and  cer- 
tain of  the  poems  of  Frederick  William  Faber,  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier,  and  Adelaide  Proctor. 

Passing  from  the  song  lyric,  we  may  put  in  a 

second   class  lyrics   which   seem   analogous  to   the 

song  in  their  formative  impulse  and  the 

Lyrics  of  more         ....  .  r    i     • 

literary  Simplicity  and  spontaneity  of  their  utter- 

ciiaracter.  ^^^^^^  g^  ^j^^^  ^j^^^  j^^^  easily  be  thought 

of  as  seeking  musical  expression,  but  which  are 
nevertheless  more  literary  in  style  than  the  pure 
song,  and  are  capable  of  giving  their  full  meed  of 
pleasure  when  read  as  literature.  Of  this  class  are 
certain  of  Tennyson's  lyrics,  such  as  Tears,  Idle 
Tears,  represented  in  The  Princess  as  being  sung  to 
the  harp,  yet  quite  as  well  fitted  to  ordinary  oral  ut- 
terance. Lamb's  Old  Familiar  Faces,  Wordsworth's 
Daffodils,  Byron's  Isles  of  Greece,  and  Browning's 


THE  LYRIC.  65 

Prospice  might  be  placed  in  the  same  group.  Going 
a  step  further,  we  find  lyrics  which  in  emotional 
intensity  and  unity  are  allied  to  the  song  lyric,  but 
which  are  elaborated  to  a  length  and  with  a  wealth 
of  imagery  which  inevitably  dissociate  them  from 
the  idea  of  musical  utterance.  A  great  example  of 
this  type  is  Shelley's  Skylark;  with  it  we  might 
group  Hood's  Bridge  of  Sighs,  Collins's  Ode  to 
Evening,  and  Wordsworth's  Highland  Girl.  This 
test — capacity  or  fitness  for  musical  utterance — 
may  be  regarded  as  the  most  genuine  for  the 
gradation  of  lyrical  poetry;  yet  by  its  nature  it  is 
also  vague,  and  difference  of  opinion  would  soon 
arise  such  as  to  make  impossible  the  drawing  of 
clear  lines  of  division.* 

But  we  move  away  from  the  song 
in   another   wav    than   by   elaboration:   Reflective 

lyrics. 

namely,  by  the  increase  of  the  reflective 

*  Wordsworth,  in  his  classification  of  poetry  (Preface  to  the 
edition  of  1S15),  included  under  Lyrical  not  only  the  song  and  hymn, 
but  the  ode,  the  elegy,  and  the  ballad,  and  said  that  in  all  these, 
"for  the  production  of  their/?///  effect,  an  accompaniment  of  music 
is  indispensable."  Of  his  own  poems — very  few  of  which  would 
seem,  to  most  persons,  to  be  wholly  adapted  to  musical  utterance — 
he  said  :  "  Some  of  these  pieces  are  essentially  lyrical,  and  therefore 
cannot  have  their  due  force  without  a  supposed  musical  accompani- 
ment ;  but,  in  much  the  greatest  part,  as  a  substitute  for  the  classic 
lyre  or  romantic  harp,  I  require  nothing  more  than  an  animated  or 
impassioned  recitation,  adapted  to  the  subject."  This  has  indeed 
become  the  substitute  for  music,  in  our  time,  through  a  wide  range 
of  poetry.  On  this  point  see  Erskine  [Eliz.  Lyric,  pp.  3,  4),  who 
quotes  Brunetiere  to  the  effect  that  our  modem  lyrics  sing  them- 
selves in  the  heart,  not  on  the  tongue. 


^  j4n  introduction  to  poetry. 

or  the  intellectual  element,  which  in  the  pure  or 
typical  lyric  plays  so  slight  a  part,  but  which  has 
been  more  and  more  introduced  here — as  in  other 
forms  of  poetry — with  the  development  of  man's 
reflective  and  intellectual  nature.  Thus  the  lyrics  of 
a  poet  like  Wordsworth,  suffused  as  they  are  with 
emotion,  are  nevertheless  so  reflective  for  the  most 
part  that — as  has  already  been  suggested — they 
could  rarely  find  a  place  in  the  widest  boundaries 
of  the  song  group.  The  odes  of  Keats  (the  Grecian 
Urn,  the  Nightingale,  and  Autumn),  although 
purely  lyrical  and  not  at  all  didactic,  are  sufficiently 
reflective  to  carry  us  into  the  same  poetical  region; 
and  when  we  pass  to  such  poems  as  Browning's 
Aht  Vogler,  Tennyson's  Higher  Pantheism,  Ar- 
nold's Rugby  Chapel,  and  George  Eliot's  0  May  I 
Join  the  Choir  Invisible,  we  are  in  a  region  where 
the  theme  is  so  characteristically  intellectual  (though 
still  interpreted  through  emotional  appeal)  that  the 
song  type  may  be  said  to  be  altogether  lost. 

It  is  a  striking  circumstance  that  three  important 
lyrical  forms,  originally  associated  with  song  and 
music,  have  become  for  modern  poetry  elaborate 
literary  forms  of  a  highly  intellectual  or  reflective 
type.  These  are  the  ode,  the  elegy,  and  the  sonnet. 
We  must  consider  each'  of  them  briefly  by  itself. 

Ode  is  a  term  very  loosely  used  in 

The  ode.  English  terminology,  but  by  derivation 

is  properly  applied  to  elaborate  lyrics 

intended  for  choral  utterance  with  equally  elaborate 


THE  LYRIC.  e^ 

musical  accompaniment.  Of  this  type  there  are 
very  few  English  examples,  the  most  notable  being 
Dryden's  two  odes  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day.  In  general 
we  may  accept  the  definition  of  the  ode  proposed  by 
Mr.  Gosse  in  the  Introduction  to  English  Odes : 
"  Any  strain  of  enthusiastic  and  exalted  lyrical  verse, 
directed  to  a  fixed  purpose,  and  dealing  progressively 
with  one  dignified  theme."  While  the  term  is  often 
used  of  brief  poems  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from 
other  lyrics  (a  use  chiefly  due  to  familiarity  with 
the  so-called  odes,  really  cannina  or  songs,  of 
Horace),  the  typical  ode  is  a  highly  elaborated 
form.  Having  a  certain  emotional  unity,  like  all 
lyrics,  its  theme  is  nevertheless  developed  by  the 
progress  of  thought  guided  by  the  underlying  emo- 
tion. In  a  sense,  therefore,  it  may  be  called  the 
most  intellectual  of  lyrical  forms;  a  good  ode  is 
usually  more  susceptible  of  analysis  by  prose  para- 
phrase than  lyrics  of  other  kinds.  Odes  of  this 
elaborate  character  are  commonly  divided  into  more 
or  less  intricate  metrical  sections,  or  strophes,* 
which  correspond  more  or  less  closely  both  with  the 
structure  of  the  thought — thus  being  analogous  to 
paragraphs  in  prose  composition — and  with  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  poet's  emotion.  Examples  of  odes 
notably  successful  in  this  respect,  and  conforming 
in  all  particulars  to  our  definition,  are  Spenser's 
Epithalainiiim,   Collins's   Ode   To   Liberty,   Gray's 

*  On  the  technical  characteristics  of  the  ode  forms,  see  chapter  vi. 


68  -^'V  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Progress  of  Poesy,  Dryden's  Alexander s  Feast 
(peculiar  in  being  set  in  narrative  form),  Slielley's 
Ode  to  Naples,  Wordsworth's  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality, Tennyson's  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Well- 
ington,  and  Lowell's  Harvard  Commemoration 
Ode.  In  such  poems  it  is  the  intense  emotional 
exaltation  and  the  dignity  of  the  theme  which  sup- 
port the  lyric  through  a  length  and  an  intellectual 
elaboration  which  would  otherwise  be  destructive  of 
lyrical  unity. 

Elegy  is  a  term  also  very  loosely  used.    Originally 
perhaps  meaning  a  poem   of  lamentation   for  the 
dead,  set  to  musical  accompaniment,  it 
The  elegy.  came  to  be  used  in   Greek  and   Latin 

literature  of  all  poems  written  in  a 
particular  metre,  their  subjects  being  very  various. 
In  English  usage  the  elegy  has  usually  been  a  poem 
dealing  with  grief  connected  with  death,  although 
in  some  instances  classical  usage  has  been  followed 
in  applying  the  term  to  poems  including  a  wide 
variety  of  subjects  (as,  for  example,  the  elegies  of 
Donne).  But  in  any  case  the  elegy  must  be  viewed 
not  as  a  simple  lyrical  utterance,  but  as  a  more  or 
less  formalized  and  elaborated  expression  of  a 
serious  emotion.  The  great  example  of  the  type  is 
Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  where  the 
mingled  emotions  aroused  by  the  contemplation  of 
evening  and  the  home  of  the  dead  become  the  im- 
pulse which  develops  a  generalized  reflective  por- 
trayal of  the  transitoriness  of  human  life,    The  re- 


THE  LYRIC. 


69 


suit  is  even  didactic,  in  a  sense;  but  lyrical  none 
the  less,  in  the  large  use  of  the  term. 

A  particular  type  of  this   form   is  the  pastoral 
elegy,  in  which  the  poet's  sorrow  for  a  lost  friend  is 
set  in  a  framework  of  pastoral  narra- 
tive   or    description,     conventionalized   Jwy.*^**''^^^ 
after  a  fashion  prevalent  in  late  Greek 
poetry.     It  might  seem  that  such  an  unreal  setting 
would  be  utterly  inappropriate  for  the  expression 
of  genuine  personal  grief;  but  experience  has  shown 
that   sorrow   may   find   relief   in   artistic   utterance 
not   only   of   the   more   direct   sort,    where   poetry 
comes    nearest    to    familiar    prose    speech    (as    in 
Tennyson's — 

"  I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel"), 

but  also  in  a  restrained  and  formalized  art,  sug- 
gestive of  the  conventional  ceremonies  of  funeral 
pomp.  Examples  of  these  pastoral  elegies  in  our 
literature  are  Spenser's  Pastoral  Eclogue  on  the 
death  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Milton's  Lycidas,  and 
Arnold's  Thyrsis.  In  Shelley's  Adonais  a  some- 
w^hat  similar  classical  (though  not  pastoral)  setting 
is  adopted  for  the  opening  of  the  poem,  but 
is  soon  left  behind.  Finally  it  should  be  noted 
that  the  term  elegy  is  sometimes  applied  to  a  brief 
lyric  of  lamentation,  more  fittingly  called  a  dirge. 


70  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

The  sonnet  derives  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it 
was  originally  a  song  to  be  sung  to  accompaniment ; 

yet  it  is  now  the  least  song-like  of  all 
The  sonnet.        brief    lyrics.      This    seems    to    be    due 

chiefly  to  the  fact  that  its  fixed  length 
and  intricate  structure  (on  the  rules  for  this,  see 
chapter  vi)  early  appeared  to  fit  it  for  the  elabo- 
rated and  hence  more  or  less  reflective  expression 
of  emotion;  and  this,  true  in  other  languages,  is 
doubly  true  for  English,  since  English  writers  have 
always  shunned  highly  intricate  metrical  forms  for 
the  expression  of  simple  emotions.  The  sonnet, 
therefore,  while  a  favorite  form  with  many  of  our 
greatest  poets,  is  rarely  used  for  other  than  dis- 
tinctly conscious  and  formal  expression;  at  its  best, 
too,  it  expresses  a  definite  intellectual  conception 
fused  with  a  single  emotion.  Its  two-part  structure 
(in  the  case  of  the  Italian  form)  makes  it  peculiarly 
fitted  for  that  lyrical  movement  described  on  a 
previous  page,  where  the  impulse  takes  its  rise  in 
the  outer  world  and  passes  to  a  point  in  the  inner. 
Originally  the  emotion  of  love  was  the  conventional 
theme  for  the  sonnet;  and  the  love  sonnets  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  notably  those  of  Sidney,  Spenser, 
and  Shakspere,  remain  the  best  examples  of  this 
type  in  our  language.  Milton  and  Wordsworth 
made  use  of  the  form  for  very  different  themes, — 
a  circumstance  to  which  Landor  finely  alludes  in 
the  lines : 


THE  LYRIC. 


71 


"  He  *  caught  the  sonnet  from  the  dainty  hand 
Of  Love,  who  cried  to  lose  it,  and  he  gave 
The  notes  to  Glory  ;  " — 

and  their  poems  include  on  the  whole  the  finest 
examples  of  what  may  be  called  the  spiritualized 
sonnet.     In  the  sonnet  beginning — 

*'  Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room  " 

Wordsworth  briefly  discusses  the  limitations  of  the 
highly  restricted  form,  suggesting  that  a  soul 
which  has  ''  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty  " 
may  find  pleasure  in  being  confined  within  such 
a  "  scanty  plot  of  ground."  This  suggests  the 
character  of  the  lyrical  pleasure  derived  from 
this  form :  a  pleasure  restrained,  fixed,  deriving  a 
certain  zest  from  the  difficulty  and  finish  of  the 
formal  expression,  and — as  has  already  been  sug- 
gested— dependent  very  often  on  the  combination 
of  a  concept  of  the  mind  with  a  related  emotion. 

Finally,  we  have  to  notice  under  lyrical   forms 
of  poetry  a   type  which   is   allied   to   the   song  in 
lightness  and  grace,   but   distinguished 
from    the    more    familiar    song    types   Vers  de  soci6te. 
by    both    matter    and    manner.      Both 
manner  and  matter  give  it  its  name  in  a  French 
phrase   which   has    thus     far   found    no    adequate 


*  i.  e.,  Milton.     There  were,  it  should  be  noted,  not  a  few  writers 
of  "  spiritual  "  sonnets  even  in  the  Elizabethan  age. 


72  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

English  equivalent  i'^'  vers  de  societe.  This  sort 
of  poetry  takes  as  its  theme,  in  the  words  of 
Professor  Schelling,  "  man  living  in  a  highly  or- 
ganized state  of  society ;  "  it  turns  ''  the  conven- 
tions of  social  life  into  a  subject  for  art."  (Intro- 
duction to  Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics.)  Or,  in  the 
words  of  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  it  represents  the  mood 
and  manner  of  ^'those  latter-day  Athenians  who,  in 
town  and  country,  spend  their  time  in  telling  or 
hearing  some  new  thing,  and  whose  graver  and 
deeper  impulses  are  subordinated  to  a  code  of  arti- 
ficial manners."  In  the  same  connection  one  may 
note  a  stanza  in  reminiscent  praise  of  the  verse  of 
Sir  Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  in  which  Mr.  Dob- 
son  again  suggests  the  qualities  of  vers  de  societe: 

"  a  verse  so  neat, 
So  well-bred  and  so  witty — 
So  finished  in  its  last  conceit. 
So  mixed  of  mirth  and  pity."  f 

All  this  is  different  from  the  usual  lyrical  method, 
which  is  likely  to  separate  from  their  trivial  en- 
vironing associations  the  elemental  emotions  of 
man ;  yet  the  modern  writers  of  society  verse  often 
touch  their  bantering  manner  with  genuine  feeling 
and  imaginative  insight.     Examples  of  this  type  of 

*  The  editor  of  a  recent  anthology  of  society  verse,  Miss  Carolyn 
Wells,  proposes  the  name  "  gentle  verse." 

+  Both  quotations  are  from  the  prefatory  matter  of  th§  segon4 
Rowfant  Catalogue  (1901). 


THE  LYRIC.  pr3 

poetry  will  be  found  among  the  lyrics  of  Waller, 
Cowley,  Herrick,  Carew,  and  Prior,  in  its  earlier 
manner;  of  the  later  manner  William  M.  Praed, 
Charles  S.  Calverley,  Sir  Frederick  Locker-Lamp- 
son,  and  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  are  notable  represen- 
tatives,— so  also,  among  American  poets,  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  and  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  A 
single  stanza  from  Prior's  verses  called  A  Better 
Ansiver  well  exhibits  the  spirit  and  style  of  society 
verse : 

"  What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write,  shows 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art : 
I  court  others  in  verse;  but  I  love  thee  in  prose: 
And  they  have  my  whimsies ;  but  thou  hast  my 
heart." 

Examples  showing  more  of  the  tenderness,  the  gentle 
reminiscent  manner,  introduced  into  the  form  by  the 
later  poets,  are  Locker's  To  my  Grandmother, 
Holmes's  Dorothy  Q.  and  Last  Leaf,  and  Aldrich's 
Thalia,  in  which  "  a  middle-aged  lyrical  poet  is 
supposed  to  be  taking  leave  of  the  Muse  of 
Comedy."  On  a  group  of  verse  forms  especially 
connected,  in  recent  poetry,  with  vers  de  societe,  see 
below  in  chapter  vi,  pages  378-384. 

For  critical  accounts  of  z'crs  de  socictc,  one  may  see, 
besides  the  passage  from  Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics 
cited  above,  the  preface  of  Locker-Lampson  to  the 
anthology  called  Lyra  Elegantianim,  and  Aliss  Wells's 
Preface  to  A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology. 


74  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

C. — The  Drama. 

The  drama  is  unique  among  the  forms  of  poetry 

in  being  not  merely  a  form  of  poetry  but  in  a  sense 

an  art  by  itself,  or  a  union  of  arts.     It 

Composite  , . .  . 

character  of        represents   life   not   only   by  means   of 
the  drama.  speech,    like    the    other    literary    arts, 

but  by  visible  action,  usually  with  a  visible  setting 
of  scenery,  and  sometimes  (as  always  in  the  Greek 
drama)  with  the  additional  aid  of  music  and 
dancing.  Thus  it  has  laws  of  its  own,  and  a  history 
of  its  own,  which  differentiate  it  clearly  from  the 
other  types  of  poetry.  We  may  of  course  consider 
the  drama  only  as  literature, — that  is,  only  as  writ- 
ten and  read ;  but  in  that  case  we  have  to  supply  by 
the  imagination  (helped  by  the  occasional  sugges- 
tions of  the  author)  all  the  action  and  some  of  the 
scenery.  There  is,  moreover,  a  considerable  body 
of  drama  written  in  prose,  the  general  structure  and 
method  of  which  are  not  essentially  different  from 
that  written  in  poetry, — a  fact  which  further  sug- 
gests that  the  drama  cannot  be  considered  merely  as 
a  part  of  the  territory  covered  by  poetry.  Much 
confusion  in  the  history  and  criticism  of  the  form 
would  be  avoided  if  this  were  frankly  recognized. 
^    .      ,  Dramatic  poetry,  nevertheless,  is  one 

Lync  and  . 

epic  qualities       of    the    great    typcs    included    in    our 

study,  and  we  have  to  consider  it  from 

that  standpoint,  omitting  as  far  as  possible  those 


THE  DRAM/^. 


n 


aspects  of  it  which  do  not  properly  concern  its 
poetical  character.  As  such,  it  relates  itself  at  the 
same  time  to  both  lyrical  and  epic  poetry :  like  the 
epic,  presenting  human  experience  objectively,  and 
in  terms  of  action;  and,  like  the  lyric,  viewing  this 
experience  through  the  minds  and  feelings,  and  ex- 
pressing it  through  the  utterances  of,  the  char- 
acters themselves.  Combining  thus,  in  a  sense,  the 
points  of  view  of  both  epic  and  lyric,  and  also 
including  something  of  the  methods  of  the  arts 
w^hich  deal  in  relations  of  space  as  well  as  those  of 
time,  it  may  be  said  to  present  the  most  complete 
view  of  life  of  all  the  arts. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  dramatic  poetry  presents 
life  as  actually  in  progress,  through  the  actions 
and   utterances   of   the   characters   con-    -  c 

Language  of 

cernecl,  it  follows  that  its  language  dramatic 
attempts  to  represent  the  actual  speech  ^°^  ^^' 
of  man  more  directly,  or — as  is  sometimes  said — 
realistically,  than  the  other  forms  of  poetry.  The 
epic  poet  begins  to  speak  when  the  action  is  over, 
and  is  conscious  that  he  is  weaving  into  an  artistic 
form  the  experiences  of  his  heroes;  the  lyric  poet 
interprets  his  theme  in  terms  of  a  single  emotion 
through  which  everything  is  viewed  and  which  gives 
its  own  artistic  form  to  his  expression;  but  the 
dramatic  poet  is  letting  us  hear  men  and  women 
speak  at  the  moment  when  their  experience  is  still 
incomplete,  and  before  it  has  shown  its  final  artistic 
significance.     This  of  course  does  not  mean  that 


^6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

their  speech  is  a  mere  copy  of  what  they  would 
say  in  real  life :  otherwise  we  should  not  be  con- 
cerned with  it  as  poetry;  it  is  idealized,  made 
beautiful,  and  given  artistic  form,  like  all  the  ma- 
terials taken  by  poets  and  transfigured  by  their 
art.  But  the  speech  of  the  dramatic  poem  is,  on 
the  whole,  certainly  closer  to  the  speech  of  real 
life,  or  made  to  appear  so,  than  that  of  epic  or  lyric. 
This  is  no  doubt  one  reason  why  the  metrical  form 
called  "  blank  verse  "  (to  be  discussed  in  detail  in 
chapter  v)  is  universally  preferred  for  dramatic 
poetry :  as  developed  by  our  great  dramatists,  it 
has  a  singular  power  of  representing  the  changing 
cadences  of  natural  human  utterance  while  at  the 
same  time  Hfting  them  into  the  language  of  art. 

From  what  has  been  said  in  the  preceding  para- 
graph of  the  position  of  the  dramatic  poet  in  rela- 
tion to  his  material,  as  contrasted  with 
fheTaml"^  the  lyrical  and  the  epic  poet,  it  follows 
also  that  the  unity  of  the  drama  is  a  dif- 
ferent thing  from  the  unity  of  either  of  the  other 
forms.  We  are  not  here  concerned,  as  in  the  epic, 
w^ith  a  dominating  hero  who  moves  on  the  straight 
line  of  some  great  action,  meeting  occasional  ob- 
stacles only  to  overcome  them,  and  assisted  when 
needful  by  the  overruling  powers;  nor,  as  in  the 
lyric,  with  a  single  emotion  of  a  single  individual 
or  group.  We  have  to  do  with  many  persons,  with 
complicated  action  and  conflicting  emotions,  and  it 
may  be  that  we  do  not  see  until  the  poem  is  finished 


THE  DRylMA. 


77 


what  is  the  real  end  to  which  the  poet  has  been 
moving.  Dramatic  poetry  presents  human  Hfe  in 
conflict,  in  a  sense  which  is  true  of  no  other  poetry, 
and  the  unity  which  is  at  length  seen  to  emerge 
from  this  represented  conflict  is  a  larger  and  more 
subtle  unity — attained  after  greater  difficulty — than 
that  characteristic  of  epic  or  lyric. 

The  form  of  the  drama  is  more  fixed  than  that  of 
the  other  forms  of  poetry.    The  epic  poem  is  of  in- 
determinate  length — its   only   limit,    in 
early  practice,  being  the  memory  of  the   Form  of 

.       .  .  r    1  •  , .       the  drama. 

reciter  and  the  patience  of  his  audi- 
ence; nor  is  it  intended  to  be  heard  or  read  at  a 
single  sitting.  The  lyric  poem  is  brief,  but  never- 
theless of  uncertain  length,  as  melody  or  other 
animating  impulse  may  suggest :  and  its  form,  as 
we  have  seen,  may  be  one  of  a  thousand.  The 
drama,  being  intended  for  presentation  in  limited 
periods  of  time  on  certain  public  occasions,  early 
took  on  a  certain  prescribed  length — not  ironclad  in 
regularity,  but  without  very  wide  variation;  and 
other  circumstances  connected  with  its  public  pres- 
entation resulted  in  its  being  divided  into  regular 
parts,  called  acts,  of  a  fairly  fixed  number  (three 
to  five  being  the  usual  limits).  This  fixity  of  form, 
together  with  the  fact  discussed  in  the  preceding 
paragraph — the  presentation  of  conflict  slowly  giv- 
ing place  to  a  sense  of  unity, — makes  the  drama  the 
form  of  poetry  best  adapted  to  present  the  idea 
of  lazij  in  human  life.     It  shows  man  struggling 


78  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

either  with  his  fellows  or  with  the  overruling 
powers,  through  a  series  of  experiences,  to  an  out- 
come which  often — perhaps  usually — suggests  the 
triumph  of  some  law  which  is  as  much  greater  than 
the  individual  struggler  as  the  whole  of  life  is 
greater  than  any  of  its  parts. 

Since  dramatic  poetry  is  characterized  by  such 
great  dignity,  and  has  this  special  power  of  pre- 
-^  senting  life  in  more  completeness  than 

dramatic  the  Other  forms  of  poetry,  it  is  at  first 

poe  ry.  thought  Surprising  that  it  should  have 

decHned  as  it  has  in  modern  English  literature.  We 
cannot  account  for  it,  as  in  the  case  of  the  epic,  by 
the  growing  interest  in  the  inner  life  of  man;  for 
although  the  drama  presents  man's  life  in  the  form 
of  outward  action,  its  spiritual  character  is  often  no 
less  marked  than  that  of  lyrical  poetry.  One  pos- 
sible reason  for  its  lessening  power  is  that  the 
poet's  personality  is  concealed  in  the  drama  even 
more  than  in  the  epic,  whereas  art  has  tended  to 
become  more  and  more  subjective, — that  is  to  say, 
to  express  more  and  more  vividly  the  personality 
of  the  artist.  A  second  reason  may  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  in  recent  times  (since  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  for  comedy,  and  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  for  tragedy)  there  has  been  a 
growing  tendency  to  write  the  English  drama  in 
prose,  thus  taking  it  out  of  the  region  of  poetic  art, 
and  depriving  it  of  those  special  powers  which 
poetry  conferred  upon  it  in  the  days  of  its  splendor 


THE  DRAM/t. 


79 


— the  age  of  Shakspere.  This  tendency  has  not 
been  felt  to  the  same  degree  in  the  drama  of  other 
modern  languages,  and  their  dramatic  literature  has 
not  suffered  so  greatly.  But  the  principal  cause  is 
doubtless  the  fact  that,  from  the  close  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan period  (for  reasons  which  cannot  be  dis- 
cussed here),  the  acted  drama  has  declined  in 
dignity  and  artistic  importance;  whereas  the  purely 
literary  drama — the  dramatic  poem  not  produced 
on  the  stage — necessarily  appeals  to  but  a  small 
class  of  readers.  Since  the  imagination  must  sup- 
ply the  action  not  described  in  the  poem  itself,  and 
since  the  imagination  is  a  faculty  made  effective 
only  by  exercise,  the  reading  of  a  drama  is  for  the 
bulk  of  humanity  a  somewhat  exhausting  task.  It 
is  quite  possible,  however,  to  train  the  imagination 
so  that  this  hindrance  will  not  be  felt, — so  that  even 
finer  action  and  scenery  wall  be  supplied  by  the  inner 
eye  than  can  possibly  be  presented  on  the  stage. 


Useful  references  on  the  drama  are  the  discussions 
of  Aristotle  and  Hegel,  Volkelt's  JEsthetik  dcs  Tragis- 
chen,  Freytag's  Technique  of  the  Drama,  Schlegel's 
Lectures  on  the  Drama,  Bradley's  Shakespearian 
Tragedy,  and  Woodbridge's  The  Drama:  its  Lazvs  and 
its  Technique.  Aristotle  did  not  define  dramatic  poetry 
as  a  whole,  but  described  Tragedy,  in  which  he  was 
chiefly  interested,  as  "  an  imitation  of  an  action  that 
is  serious,  complete,  and  of  a  certain  magnitude ;  in 
language  embellished  with  each  kind  of  artistic  orna- 
ment, the  several  kinds  being  found  in  separate  parts 


8o  y4N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

of  the  play ;  in  the  form  of  action,  not  of  narrative ; 
through  pity  and  fear  effecting  the  proper  purgation 
of  these  emotions.  .  .  .As  tragic  imitation  im- 
plies persons  acting,  it  necessarily  follows,  in  the  first 
place,  that  scenic  equipment  will  be  a  part  of  tragedy. 
Next,  song  and  diction,  for  these  are  the  medium 
of  imitation."  (Chap,  vi ;  Butcher's  translation.)  The 
succeeding  chapters  discuss  the  unity  of  the  tragic 
plot  (consisting  not  in  its  hero,  but  in  its  action),  the 
structure  of  the  action,  probability  of  characters,  etc. 
This,  like  most  works  on  the  drama,  treats  it  rather 
as  an  art  by  itself  than  as  a  form  of  poetry.  An  ex- 
ception is  found  in  Hegel's  discussion,  on  which  was 
based  the  preceding  treatment  of  dramatic  poetry  as  a 
combination  of  the  subjective  method  of  the  lyric  with 
the  objective  method  of  the  epic.  Freytag's  analy- 
sis of  the  structure  of  a  drama  is  the  most  elaborate 
and  influential  to  be  found  in  modern  criticism.  Ex- 
panding Aristotle's  two-fold  division  into  Compli- 
cation and  Denouement  (or  Solution),  he  finds  in 
the  tragedy  an  introductory  Exposition,  a  Compli- 
cation marked  at  its  height  by  the  "  climax "  and 
at  its  close  by  the  *'  tragic  moment,"  whence  it  passes 
to  the  Solution  and  then  to  the  Catastrophe. 


To  classify  dramatic  poetry  satisfactorily  Is  no 
less  difficult  than  in  the  case  of  the  other  two  forms. 
Dramas  cias-  Here,  as  elsewhere,  there  are  different 
sifiedbyex-        standpoints   from   which   lines   may  be 

ternal  form.  .  i  •   i  mi  i 

drawn  which  will  cross  one  another 
variously.  Perhaps  the  simplest  basis  of  classifica- 
tion would  be  the  extent  to  which  the  drama  de- 
pends for  its  efifect  upon  external  presentation, — 


THE  DRAMA.  gl 

visible  action,  scenery,  music,  and  the  like.  Ac- 
cording to  this  division,  we  should  find  at  one  ex- 
treme tlie  form  called  the  masque,  exceedingly 
popular  in  the  early  seventeenth  century.  In  some 
cases  this  form  contains  only  a  slight  literary  ele- 
ment, being  for  the  most  part  a  vehicle  for  elaborate 
scenic  and  musical  effects  (as  in  the  masques  of  Ben 
Jonson)  ;  in  a  few  instances,  notably  the  Comus  of 
Milton,  it  has  important  poetical  and  dramatic 
values.  At  the  other  extreme  from  the  masque,  in 
respect  to  this  scheme  of  classification,  is  the  so- 
called  *'  closet  drama,"  not  intended  for  stage  pres- 
entation, but  working  out  the  dramatic  process  in 
poetry  addressed  to  the  ear  and  the  inward  eye. 
Examples  are  Byron's  Manfred,  Shelley's  Prome- 
theus Unbound,  and  Browning's  Pippa  Passes. 
Between  these  two  classes  comes  the  great  body  of 
those  dramatic  poems,  headed  by  Shakspere's, 
which,  though  originally  written  for  stage  presenta- 
tion, have  for  the  modern  world  a  place  in  pure 
poetry  even  more  important  than  their  place  on  the 
stage. 

A  second  method  of  classification,  suggestive  in 
some  respects,  would  be  to  divide  dramas  into  those 
more  strictly  dramatic,  and  those  tend- 

,  ,  ,    ^  1      1        1       •      1     Dramas  tending 

mg  on  the  one  hand  toward  the  lyrical   toward  epic  or 
or  on  the  other  toward  the  epical  charac-   lyric  character. 
ter.  The  masques,  already  briefly  considered,  would 
belong  also  in  the  lyrical  class,  as  would  pastoral 
dramas  like  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess,  because 


82  ^f^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

of  the  prevalence  of  the  song  element  in  their  texts. 
So  also,  though  on  somewhat  different  grounds, 
would  those  dramas  in  which  the  poet,  instead  of 
representing  objectively  the  characters  of  the  action, 
makes  them  vehicles  for  the  expression  of  his  own 
emotions.  Most  of  the  dramas  of  Byron  and 
Browning  tend  toward  this  character,  as  does  the 
Prometheus  of  Shelley.  Of  dramas  tending,  on 
the  other  hand,  toward  the  epic  character,  the  great 
examples  are  the  ''  histories  "  or  chronicle  plays,  so 
popular  in  the  sixteenth  century,  whose  method  was 
not  to  set  forth  man  in  conflict  with  his  fellows  or 
his  fate,  but  to  present  a  pageant  of  national  life  in 
a  series  of  scenes,  or  to  show  forth  the  triumphs  of 
a  hero.  Among  the  most  epical  of  such  plays  is 
Shakspere's  Henry  V — a  hero-poem  rather  than  a 
pure  drama.  Similar,  so  far  as  the  present  stand- 
point is  concerned,  were  the  so-called  "  heroic " 
plays  of  the  late  seventeenth  century,  of  which 
Dryden's  Conquest  of  Granada  is  the  leading 
example. 

Once  more,  considered  with  reference  to  their 
formal  structure,  we  may  classify  dramas  according 
01  •  1  nd  ^^  ^^^y  conform  to  what  is  called  the 
romantic  classical   Standard,    or   as   they   exhibit 

the  greater  freedom  of  structure  often 
called  romantic.  The  dramatists  of  .the  classical 
group,  including  both  the  ancient  GreeRs  and  those 
in  modern  periods  who  have  imitated  or  resembled 
the   Greeks   in    their    standards   of   poetical    form 


THE  DRAM/i,  83 

(notably,  for  example,  the  French  dramatists  of  the 
seventeenth  century),  present  human  experience  in 
a  restrained  and  formalized  fashion,  concentrating 
the  action  of  the  drama  into  comparatively  few  im- 
portant scenes,  avoiding  all  extraneous  material,  and 
moving  forward  severely  and  uninterruptedly  to  the 
appointed  end.  The  romantic  dramatists,  on  the 
other  hand  (notably  those  of  Elizabethan  Eng- 
land), present  their  material  in  a  form  closer  to 
actual  experience,  with  as  much  freedom  as  the 
dramatic  form  will  permit,  with  an  abundance  of 
scenes — often  apparently  digressive  in  character, 
though  always  intended  to  contribute  something  to 
the  principal  purpose  of  the  play, — and  progressing 
toward  the  conclusion  by  what  might  be  described 
as  darting  and  eddying  movements,  in  contrast  with 
the  straight  line  of  the  other  type  of  structure. 
Thus,  for  example,  the  classical  drama  brings  all 
the  action  into  a  single  place,  and  does  not  attempt 
to  represent  events  more  than  a  few  hours  apart; 
while  in  the  romantic  drama  we  may  pass  from 
Venice  to  Rome,  from  London  to  Calais,  from 
Rome  to  the  battle-field  at  Philippi,  and  may  also 
leap  over  months  and  years  in  passing  from  one  act 
to  another.  (Compare,  as  a  particularly  striking 
example,  Shakspere's  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  the 
action  of  which  occupies  no  less  than  forty-two  dis- 
tinct scenes,  in  all  quarters  of  the  Roman  empire, 
with  Dryden's  All  For  Love,  in  which  the  same 
material  is  made  over  into  something  more  nearly 


84  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

approaching  the  classical  form.)  The  romantic 
drama  has  in  this  way  a  greater  capacity  for  pre- 
senting developments  of  character  and  varieties  of 
passion;  its  picture  of  the  world  is  like  that  of  one 
unhindered  by  space  or  time,  who  may  carry  us 
hither  and  thither  at  will  on  the  wings  of  the  im- 
agination, showing  us  how  events,  now  here — now 
there,  are  all  contributing  toward  the  coming  con- 
clusion. The  classical  form,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
a  restrained  power  of  its  own,  showing  how  whole 
lifetimes  and  cycles  of  fate  may  be  concentrated  in 
particular  moments  and  places,  and  emphasizing  the 
reign  of  law  or  destiny  by  the  swift  and  inexorable 
movement  of  its  action.  The  great  English  dramas 
are  largely  in  the  romantic  form;  but  Shakspere's 
Tempest  closely  approaches  the  classical  standard 
in  the  formal  "  unities  "  of  time  and  place,  while 
Othello,  which  involves  but  one  important  flight 
through  time  and  space,  and  which  has  fewer  of 
what  can  possibly  be  called  irrelevant  details  than 
any  of  his  other  plays,  approximates  to  the  swift 
and  severe  effect  of  classical  tragedy."^ 

Since  the  matter  of  the  "  unities,"  like  other  as- 
pects of  the  conflict  of  classical  and  romantic  qualities 
in  the  drama,  is  not  strictly  a  part  of  the  consideration 
of  the  drama  as  poetry,  it  must  be  slighted  here.  The 
best  account  of  it  will  be  found  in  Lounsbury's  Shaks- 


*  Addison's    Cato  is   one  of  the  few  English   dramas   following 
Strictly  the  classical  structure,  with  unity  of  both  place  and  time. 


THE  DRAMA.  85 

pere  as  a  Dramatic  Artist.  Landmarks  in  the  history 
of  the  discussion  are  Corneille's  Discourses  (published 
with  his  collected  dramas  in  1660),  the  dispute  which 
centered  about  The  Cid  (see  the  various  pamphlets 
included  in  Caste's  La  Querelle  du  Cid),  Dryden's  Es- 
say of  Dramatic  Poesy  (1667),  Rymer's  Tragedies  of 
the  last  Age  (1678),  Karnes's  Elements  of  Criticism 
(1762),  Johnson's  Preface  to  Shakspere  (1765), 
Lessing's  Dramaturgic  (1767-69),  and  Coleridge's 
Shakspere  Lectures  (delivered  1818).  The  neo-clas- 
sical insistence  on  the  unities  of  time  and  place  was  in 
part  the  result  of  the  misunderstanding  of  Aristotle's 
dictum  (which  was  simply  to  the  effect  that  "  tragedy 
endeavors,  as  far  as  possible,  to  confine  itself  to  a 
single  revolution  of  the  sun,"  in  contrast  to  the  limit- 
less time  of  epic  action),  and  chiefly  to  the  exaggerated 
authority  of  classical  models.  The  old  argument 
against  the  romantic  type  of  drama,  that  it  made 
excessive  demands  upon  the  imagination  of  the  spec- 
tator, is  entirely  obsolete ;  Dr.  Johnson's  answer  to 
it,  in  his  Preface  to  Shakspere,  left  little  to  be  de- 
sired. The  real  source  of  pleasure  in  the  highlv  uni- 
fied drama  is  not  its  reasonableness,  but — what  has 
been  slighted  by  the  critics  of  the  romantic  period — 
its  remarkable  sense  of  order  and  of  concentration. 

But  finally  and  chiefly,  the  most  familiar  and  im- 
portant classification  of  dramas  is  into  the  two  pre- 
vailing forms  called  Comedy  and  Trag- 
edy.    In  different  periods  these  terms   Comedy  and 
have  been  used  with   divergent  mean- 
ings; but    in    general    the    comedy    is    a    drama 
characterized  by  the  fact  that  it  deals  wnth  familiar 
life,  with  themes  of  comparatively  slight  dignity, 


86  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

and  with  successful  issues  in  the  conflict  of  human- 
ity with  opposing  forces;  while  the  tragedy  is  a 
drama  dealing  with  life  on  an  ideal  plane,  with 
themes  of  great  dignity,  and  with  failure  or  defeat 
as  the  issue  of  human  conflict.*  Comedy  may  be  of 
a  romantic  type,  laying  strong  emphasis  on  the 
elements  of  adventure,  beauty,  and  love,  in  which 
case  it  is  naturally  poetical,  and  at  its  best  in  verse ; 
or  it  may  be  more  realistic,  like  the  pure  *'  comedy 
of  manners,"  in  which  case  it  tends  also  to  be 
satiric,  and  to  move  out  of  the  region  of  poetry  into 
that  of  prose.  Tragedy,  from  its  very  nature,  is 
essentially  poetical  in  character,  and  is  usually  in 
verse.f  Both  these  forms  are  so  familiar  as  to 
require  no  illustration. 

The  pleasure  derived  from  comedy  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand; it  lies — apart  from  the  incidental  amuse- 
ment usually  characteristic  of  the  form 
of'comedy?^^  —in  the  presentation  of  those  conflicts  in 
human  experience  which  do  not  stir  the 
emotions  too  deeply  to  be  enjoyed  w^ith  a  light 
heart,  set  forth  in  a  manner  which  assures  a  happy 


*  The  "  unhappy  ending "  associated  so  generally  with  modem 
tragedy  was  not  originally  an  essential  part  of  the  conception ;  com- 
pare, for  example,  the  Ahestis  of  Euripides.  Neither  were  the  terms 
comedy  and  tragedy  always  confined  to  dramatic  poems ;  thus  Dante 
called  his  great  poem  a  Commedia,  mediaeval  usage  applying  the 
term  to  any  narrative  of  an  ill  beginning  with  a  good  ending. 
Chaucer,  on  the  other  hand,  uses  the  term  '*  tragedie  "  of  any  story 
of  fortune  turning  from  good  to  ill. 

t  On  this  point,  see  p.  200  below. 


THE  DR^MA. 


87 


outcome.  The  problem  of  the  pleasure  derived  from 
tragedy,  in  which  the  profoundest  emotions  are 
stirred,  and  under  conditions  which 
lead  inevitably  to  a  catastrophe  involv-  oft^ragtdy!^^ 
ing  defeat  and  (usually)  death,  is  more 
difficult.  Many  explanations  have  been  offered  for 
it ;  some  of  them  superficial  and  unsatisfactory,  as 
for  example,  that  we  enjoy  seeing  a  presentation  of 
the  suffering  of  others — when  it  is  not  too  horrible 
— from  the  sense  that  we  are  more  fortunate  than 
they.  But  right-minded  persons  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  is  also  pointed  out  tliat  there  is  a  pleasure 
in  the  mere  imitation  or  representation  of  any  hu- 
man experience;  and  this  is  true,  but  it  accounts 
only  for  the  pleasurableness  of  tragedy  as  poetry, 
not  as  tragic  poetry.  Three  more  satisfactory  ex- 
planations may  be  suggested.  First,  in  the  very 
stirring  of  the  deeper  emotions,  even  those  connected 
with  pathos  and  pain,  provided  one's  own  personality 
is  not  too  intimately  touched,  there  is  a  strange 
pleasure,  such  as  is  given  to  many  persons  by 
funeral  pomp  and  the  music  of  dirges.*     Second, 


*  This  explanation  suggests  the  "  katharsis  "  or  "  purgation  " 
theory  of  Aristotle,  as  interpreted  by  some  to  be  a  reference  to  the 
relief  produced  by  the  overflow  of  the  deeper  emotions  which  nor- 
mally exist  and  seek  functional  expression.  Compare  the  remarks 
of  Milton  in  the  Preface  to  Samson  As^onistes :  "  Tragedy  .  .  .  said 
by  Aristotle  to  be  of  power,  by  raising  pity  and  fear,  or  terror,  to 
purge  the  mind  of  those  and  such-like  passions  ;  that  is,  to  temper  or 
reduce  them  to  just  measure  with  a  kind  of  delight  stirred  up  by 
reading  or  seeing  those  passions  well  imitated.     Nor  is  Nature  her- 


88  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

the  fact  that  these  deeper  emotions  form  the  theme 
of  tragedy,  together  with  the  fact  that  tragedy  deals 
with  conflicts  of  the  most  profound  significance, 
enables  the  tragic  poet  to  employ  his  powers  of 
eloquent  language  and  of  imaginative  conception 
more  completely  than  in  any  other  poetic  form. 
Third,  and  probably  most  important  of  all,  the 
defeat  presented  in  tragedy  usually  suggests  at  the 
very  moment  of  its  most  sorrowful  exhibition  the 
presence  of  some  great  law  triumphing  over  in- 
dividual weakness;  and  this  is  a  noble  conception, 
in  which  the  human  mind  always  takes  a  stern  and 
mysterious  pleasure.  All  these  things  are  illus- 
trated in  the  conclusion  of  one  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  tragedies,  Hamlet.  The  reader's  horror 
and  pity  have  been  stirred,  yet  by  circumstances  so 
distant  and  so  idealized  as  not  to  have  the  painful- 
ness   of   immediate   suffering.      His    sense   of   the 


self  wanting  in  her  own  effects  to  make  good  his  assertion  ;  for  so, 
in  physic,  things  of  melancholic  hue  and  quality  are  used  against 
melancholy,  sour  against  sour,  salt  to  remove  salt  humours."  "  In 
other  words,"  Butcher  adds  in  quoting  the  passage,  "  tragedy  is  a 
form  of  homeopathic  treatment,  curing  emotion  by  means  of  an 
emotion  like  in  kind,  but  not  identical."  A  broader  interpretation 
of  the  doctrine  understands  by  "  katharsis  "  a  kind  of  purification 
or  ennobling  of  the  passions,  by  relieving  them  of  that  which  is  per- 
sonal, selfish,  or  morbid,  and  exerting  them  in  connection  with 
suffering  which  is  great,  worthy,  and  external  to  one's  self.  In 
Butcher's  phrase,  again:  the  emotions  "are  disengaged  from  the 
petty  interests  of  self,  and  are  on  the  way  to  being  universalized." 
See  his  whole  discussion  in  chapter  vi  of  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  ; 
also    Worsfold's,   in    The  Principles  of  Criticism.        , 


THE  DR/1MA.  gg 

beauty  of  sorrow  is  awakened  by  the  wonderful 
dying  words  of  the  hero — 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  a  while. 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 
To  tell  my  story." 

And  he  has  been  led  by  the  movement  of  the  whole 
tragedy  to  perceive  a  mysterious  destiny  triumph- 
ing over  human  sins  and  errors,  whose  final  out- 
working, when  all  the  persons  of  the  action  have 
beaten  themselves  against  it  in  vain,  leaves  blended 
with  his  sadness  an  impression  of  reconciliation  and 
peace. 

The  term  ''  poetic  justice  "  is  sometimes  applied  to 
dramatic  outcomes  which  not  only  satisfy  this  deeper 
moral  perception  of  the  triumph  of  destiny,  but  which 
also  satisfy  the  more  superficial  desire  that  good  and 
evil  in  character  shall  meet  their  appropriate  ends. 
This  sort  of  justice  is  usually  satisfied  in  comedy,  but 
by  no  means  always  in  tragedy.  In  the  eighteenth 
century  certain  critics  tried  to  insist  upon  its  place 
in  tragic  structure, — notably  John  Dennis,  who  at- 
tacked the  Cato  of  Addison  because  it  presented  virtue 
finally  defeated,  and  Dr.  Johnson,  who  could  not  but 
feel  that  Shakspere  "  makes  no  just  distribution  of 
good  or  evil."  Addison  answered  the  arguments  of 
Dennis  in  The  Spectator,  No.  40.  The  demand  for 
poetic  justice  is  based  on  an  exaggeration  of  the  doc- 
trine of  idealism  in  poetry, — that  it  must  transcend 
real  life  in  its  order  and  beauty.  But,  as  Addison 
pointed  out,  this  does  not  mean  that  it  must  fly  in  the 
face  of  common  experience,  which  involves  the  good 


go  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

and  evil  alike  in  tragic  circumstance.  As  sometimes 
stated,  a  modern  doctrine  of  poetic  justice  would  re- 
quire that  all  dramatic  catastrophes  must  in  some 
way  be  the  logical  outcome  of  the  characters  con- 
cerned ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  such  a  view  could 
be  made  to  include  all  the  tragic  elements  of  Lear, 
Hamlet,  Othello,  or  Romeo  and  Juliet,  even  if  we  can 
find  it  exemplified  in  Julius  Cccsar  and  Macbeth.  The 
matter  is  profound  in  its  critical  suggestiveness ;  it 
is  sufficient,  perhaps,  to  suggest  here  the  distinction 
between  justice  as  worked  out  for  individuals,  and  a 
sense  of  order  in  the  cyclic  progress  of  events.  The 
latter  it  is  certainly  a  usual  function  of  tragedy  to  sat- 
isfy. On  this  subject  interesting  discussions  will  be 
found  in  Butcher's  Aristotle,  Bradley's  Shakspearian 
Tragedy,  Volkelt's  ^sthetik  des  Tragischen,  Thorn- 
dike's  Tragedy,  and  Mr.  Churton  Collins's  Essay  on 
'*  Sophocles  and  Shakspere."  See  also  Moulton's  Moral 
System  of  Shakspere  for  a  defense  of  the  use  of 
the  element  of  accident  in  tragedy.  On  the  prob- 
lem of  the  pleasurable  character  of  tragedy  one  may 
see  Hume's  essay  on  Tragedy,  in  which  he  cites  the 
explanations  offered  by  the  French  critics  Dubos 
and  Fontenelle.  The  same  matter  is  considered  by 
Mr.  Alexander  in  his  Poetry  and  the  Individual,  from 
which  the  following  is  a  suggestive  extract :  "  Realiz- 
ation of  human  powerlessness  is  what  gives  tragedy 
its  pain,  and  if  the  tragedy  rests  with  this  it  is  pessi- 
mistic  But  tragedy  of  the  nobler  sort  never 

accepts  defeat,  or  rather  in  the  ordinary  defeats  of 
life  it  recognizes  the  one  true  victory.  The  human 
soul,  we  might  say,  never  comes  to  its  own  until  it 
has  undergone  the  katharsis  of  tragic  sorrow.  .  .  . 
The  reason  why  death  is  the  fitting  end  of  tragedy  I 
take  to  be  the   fact  that  death  means  the  final  su- 


THE  DRy4M/4. 


91 


premacy  of  the  soul ;  it  is  the  sign  of  the  breaking 
away  from  the  paltriness  and  hindrances  of  mortal 
days.  In  beauty  there  is  an  eternity  of  promise  which 
death  cannot  subdue,  and  the  strange  cahn  which  suc- 
ceeds the  spectacle  of  tragic  dissolution  comes  not 
from  a  sense  of  defeat  but  from  awe  of  the  fulfilment." 
(pp.  230,  231.) 

We  have  to  note  also  that  certain  dramas  refuse 
to  be  classified  as  either  comedy  or  tragedy,  but  com- 
bine in  themselves  some  of  the  ele-  „,  ,. 
ments  of  each.  1  he  epic  or  heroic  type,  tragedy  and 
already  briefly  considered,  is  of  this  ^"^'"^y- 
character, — dealing,  like  tragedy,  with  life  on  an 
ideal  plane  and  with  themes  of  great  dignity,  yet 
without  the  element  of  tragic  conflict.  So  also  with 
the  so-called  "  tragi-comedy "  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  now  often  called  *'  dramatic  romance."  In 
this  type  of  drama  we  find  all  the  materials  of 
tragedy, — conflict  of  important  personages,  ani- 
mated by  high  emotions,  apparently  moving  toward 
a  certain  catastrophe;  then  an  unexpected  reversal 
of  the  action,  which  is  brought  to  a  happy,  or 
sometimes  to  an  only  partially  happy,  conclusion. 
Examples  of  this  type  are  Philaster,  by  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  and  certain  of  the  late  plays  of  Shak- 
spere,  notably  Cymbeline  and  A  Winter's  Tale. 
Another  name  for  this  kind  of  play,  borrowed  from 
the  Germans,  is  "  reconciling  drama,"  which  sug- 
gests that  the  effort  of  the  dramatist  is  to  reconcile 
or  harmonize  the  opposing  standpoints  of  comedy 


g2  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

and  tragedy.  Many  charming  dramas  of  this  type 
have  been  written,  which  we  should  be  sorry  indeed 
to  have  missed ;  but  in  general  criticism  regards  the 
type  as  inferior  to  either  of  the  legitimate  forms — 
comedy  and  tragedy.  For  the  purpose  of  this 
reconciling,  romantic  type  of  story,  the  drama  is  the 
least  appropriate  form'. 

In  the  criticism  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries  the  discussion  of  this  type  of  drama,  the 
"  tragi-comedy,"  was  constantly  confused  (for  ex- 
ample, by  Dr.  Johnson)  with  the  discussion  of  the 
use  of  comic  episodes  in  tragedy,  familiar  throughout 
the  Elizabethan  drama.  Modern  criticism  distin- 
guishes the  two  things  carefully :  the  latter  is  a  device 
either  for  the  relief  or  the  heightening  of  tragic  effect, 
the  other  is  a  matter  of  confused  or  compromised  dra- 
matic structure.  The  best  account  of  the  character  of 
the  dramatic  romances  of  the  seventeenth  century  is 
to  be  found  in  Thorndike's  Iniiuence  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  on  Shakspere  and  his  Introduction  to  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  Philaster  and  Maid's  Tragedy. 

In  conclusion,  wt  may  note  the  existence  of  the 
burlesque  drama,  analogous  to  the  burlesque  cr  mock 

epic.  It  may  take  the  form  of  comedy, 
Itna!'^''^'''     like   Beaumont   and   Fletcher's   Knight 

of  the  Burning  Pestle,  or  of  mock 
tiagedy,  like  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb  the  Great.  In 
either  case,  from  its  very  nature  it  tends  to  pass 
out  of  the  field  of  poetry  into  that  of  prose  satire. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    BASIS    OF    POETRY    (INTERNAL). 

In  this  chapter  we  have  to  consider  certain  mat- 
ters already  touched  upon  in  chapter  i,  relating  to 
the  nature  of  poetry  apart  from  its  ex-  problems  of  the 
ternal  form.  They  involve  a  further  internal  nature 
consideration  of  what  is  meant  by  the 
imagination  as  the  means  by  which  experiences  are 
poetically  represented;  of  the  relation  of  this 
factor  of  poetry  to  the  presentation  of  beauty 
and  truth;  and  of  the  ways  in  which  it  affects  on 
the  one  hand  the  subject-matter  of  poetry,  and  on 
the  other  hand  its  style. 

In  saying  that  poetry  treats  its  material  with  ref- 
erence to  the  emotions  and  by  means  of  the  imagina- 
tion, we  have  seen  that  this  implies  a 
contrast  with   the   processes  of   reason    The  imagina- 
as  used  by  science  in  the  observation 
and   classification   of  objective   facts.      Let   us   see 
further   in   what   ways   imagination   is   to   be   con- 
trasted with  the  pure  reason. 

The   word   suggests   the   making   of 

.  ,  •   ,      Imagination 

images — imiages  m  the  mmd  s  eye  which   as  a  form  r 
more  or  less  resemble  the  images  which    ^-^^^^ 
are  there  when  an  object  is  seen;  and  in  the  simplest 

93 


94  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

use  of  the  term  nothing  more  is  impHed.  Thus 
Addison  included  in  his  "  pleasures  of  the  imagina- 
tion "  only  "  such  as  arise  from  visible  objects," 
either  seen  or  remembered.  From  this  standpoint 
the  imagination  is  a  peculiarly  vivid  form  of 
memory,  and  is  the  basis  of  the  picture-making  or 
story-making  faculty  which  we  all  feel  that  we  have 
somewhere  within  us  when  we  recall  the  best  things 
that  we  have  seen.  Not  only,  however,  the  things 
that  we  have  seen:  for,  while  both  memory  and 
imagination  are  perhaps  more  at  home  with  objects 
of  sight  than  with  those  perceived  by  the  other 
senses,  they  are  quite  capable  of  representing 
sounds,  odors,  and  the  perceptions  of  taste  and 
touch. 

If  the  poet  did  nothing  more  than  this,  then,  his 
imagination  would  be  of  the  utmost  importance. 
He  can  recall,  first  picturing  to  himself  and  then 
to  his  reader,  a  great  window  in  some  ancient 
castle, 

*'  All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  branches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable   of  stains   and   splendid   dyes ; " 

or,  it  may  be,  the  sounds  of  an  autumn  evening, 
when 

"  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; " 


THE  IMAGINATION.  95 

or  tastes,  as  of 

"  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ;  " 

or  scents,  as  of  a  garden  where 

"  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet ;  '* 

or  some  such  sensation  of  touch  as  when  one  has 
felt 

"  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  pressed, 
By  minist'ring  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet."* 

In  all  these  cases  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
instantly  responds  to  his,  and  reproduces — still  by 
the  aid  of  memory — an  image  and  a  related  emo- 
tion such  as  the  poet  had  w^ithin  himself. 

But  this  is  not  all;  for  the  imagination  is  more 
than  memory.     It  not  only  recalls  past  sensations, 
but  adds  to  them  and  subtracts   from 
them,  making,  from  the  materials  thus   J^^^l^^H 
furnished,  new  images  which  have  no 
precise    counterpart    in    nature.     Indeed    the    first 
example  just   quoted   is   an   instance   of   this :   the 
window^  described  was  not  a  real  window  of  the 

*  All  these  quotations  are  from  the  poetry  of  Keats,  who  is  in  a 
peculiar  sense  the  poet  of  vivid  physical  sensations,  imaginatively 
beautified  and  perpetuated. 


96  yif^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

poet's  experience,  but  one  made  up  of  the  beauties 
of  many  windows  seen  and  remembered,  now 
brought  together  to  form  a  new  creation.  Such 
creations  may  even  take  us  out  of  the  region  of 
ordinary  experience,  as  in  the  case  of  the  home  of 
Arnold's  Merman, — 

"  Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the   salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream,  .  .  . 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye. 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye." 

Or,  still  further,  they  may  deal  with  experiences 
quite  beyond  human  possibility,  as  in  the  wondrous 
music,  such  as  was  never  heard  by  mortal  ear,  de- 
scribed in  Tennyson's  Vision  of  Sin: 

''  Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled.     .     .     , 
Then  the  music  touched  the  gates  and  died, 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seemed  to  fail, 
Stormed  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale; 
Till,  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they  waited, 
As  'twere  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbbed  and  palpi- 
tated." 

Yet  once  more,  the  poet's  imagination  may  create 


THE  IMAGINATION.  97 

new  personages,  with  characters  so  real  that  they 
become  our  friends  and  companions,  though  they 
were  never  seen  on  earth :  Portia,  Shylock,  Mac- 
beth, Chaucer's  pilgrims,  Tennyson's  King  Arthur, 
— we  know  how  these  look  and  speak  and  feel. 
They  are  more  real  to  us  than  men  who  died  a 
hundred  years  ago;  yet  they  are  only  the  creatures 
of  poetic  imagination.  It  is  such  a  capacity  as  this 
that  leads  us  to  apply  the  term  creative  to  the  im- 
aginative arts :  they  remind  us  of  the  primal  powers 
of  the  Creator  himself. 

In  earlier  usage  this  is  about  as  far  as  the  term 
Imagination  went.  It  would  seem  to  be  quite  as 
much  as  Shakspere  meant,  for  example    „,    . 

^  '  .  ^  The  inter- 

in   the   passage    from    the   Midsmnmer   pretat-ive 

Nighfs   Dream,    quoted    in    chapter    i.    ^^^^^i^^^^^^' 

where   the   ''  imagination "    is   compared   with   the 

capacity  of  the  lover  and  the  madman  for  seeing 

things  that  do  not  exist  objectively,  bodying  forth 

"  the  forms  of  things  unknown."  *     But   in   later 

times,  especially  since  the  days  of  Coleridge  and 

Wordsworth,  who  were  among  the  first  writers  to 

use  the  word  with  a  distinctively  larger  meaning, 

the  imagination   has   meant   something  more  than 

this  power  to  produce  mental  experiences  resembling 


*  He  goes  on  to  say — what  we  have  already  seen  to  be  true,  in 
terms  of  modern  psychology — that  such  imaginative  processes  are 
called  into  action  by  some  dominating  emotion  : 

*'  Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear !  " 


98 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


those  of  the  five  senses.  In  the  larger  sense  it 
includes  the  power  of  comparing  and  combining 
such  images,  noting  resemblances  between  them 
which  have  a  meaning  for  the  inner  life,  though 
they  may  have  none  for  the  senses  or  the  pure 
reason,  and  of  leaping  to  conclusions  which  re- 
semble those  drawn  by  the  reason  from  common  ex- 
perience— only  more  rapidly  and  in  different 
regions.  This  is  the  aspect  of  the  imagination 
which  is  especially  opposed  to  the  more  elaborate 
reasoning  processes,  as  the  simpler  aspect  is  in 
contrast  with  those  simpler  reasoning  processes 
which  enable  us  to  tell  what  is  objectively  real. 

Let  us  illustrate  this  second  aspect.     In  Shelley's 
Skylark  there  is  a  series  of  statements  about  the 

lark  and  what  it  resembles :  in  one 
from^SMiey.       stauza  we  are  told  that  it  springs  from 

earth  "  like  a  cloud  of  fire ; "  in  an- 
other that  it  is  as  invisible  as  *'  a  star  of  heaven  in 
the  broad  daylight ;  "  in  another  that  the  earth  and 
air  are  as  full  of  its  voice  as  they  are  of  moonlight 
"when  night  is  bare;"  in  others  that  the  lark  is 
like  a  poet  singing  unbidden  hymns,  like  a  maiden 
shut  in  a  tower,  like  a  glow-worm  scattering  its 
light  in  a  dark  dell,  like  a  rose  that  makes  the  wind 
faint  with  its  sweetness.  All  these  are  comparisons 
between  images  of  the  senses;  first  of  all,  as  we 
should  expect,  images  of  the  sense  of  sound,  but 
also  of  that  of  sight  and  that  of  smell;  and  none  of 
them  are   such   comparisons   as  the  reason   would 


THE  IMAGINATION.  gg 

suggest.  The  reason  replies — as  we  may  conceive: 
a  skylark  is  not  at  all  like  a  cloud,  still  less  like  a 
rose,  least  of  all  like  a  moonlight  night.  But  the 
imagination  of  the  poet  has  declared  this  resem- 
blance, because  the  emotion  awakened  in  him  by  the 
skylark  has  leaped  from  one  thing  to  another, — 
from  the  sensation  produced  by  moonlight  to  that 
produced  by  a  haunting  song  or  the  ravishing  odor 
of  a  rose, — in  the  effort  to  reveal  that  emotion  in 
all  its  beauty.  It  goes  further  yet,  and  in  still 
another  stanza  passes  altogether  out  of  the  range 
of  images  of  the  senses,  declaring  that  the  lark  is 
'*  like  an  unbodied  Joy."  This  cannot  be  pictured 
by  eye  or  ear,  but  in  a  purely  spiritual  way — such 
as  only  the  poet,  of  all  artists,  can  make  use  of — 
presents  the  theme  to  an  inner  imaginative  sense. 

Again,  in  Dryden's  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  the 
poet  begins  his  praise  of  music  by  a  reference  to  the 
traditional  teaching — suggested  both  by 
certain  Greek  philosophers  and  by  the   ^°®^^™^^® 
saying    in    the    book    of    Job    that    at 
the  creation  *'  the  morning  stars  sang  together  " — 
that  the  making  of  the  universe  was  accompanied 
by  supernaturally  glorious  music. 


From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

This  universal  frame  began : 

From   harmony   to   harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran^ 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  ]\Ian,'' 


lOO  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Then,  at  the  close  of  the  poem,  carrying  on  this 
conception  by  a  sudden  leap  of  the  imagination,  he 
represents  the  end  of  the  world — announced  by  the 
*'  last  trumpet  "  spoken  of  in  the  New  Testament — 
as  taking  place  in  an  infinitely  tremendous  disson- 
ance,— a  final  harmonic  crash : 

"  So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky." 

Thus  the  poet's  imagination  brings  together  two 
conceptions  which  for  the  reason  are  absolutely 
distinct :  the  making  of  harmony  and  dissonance  to 
the  ear  by  different  musical  sounds,  and  the  progress 
of  the  created  universe  from  some  unknown  be- 
ginning to  some  unknown  end. 

Once  more :  in  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  Keats 
pictures  an  ancient  urn  on  which  are  carved  figures 

of  men  playing  on  pipes  and  timbrels — 
fronK™ts!        \or\g  buricd  records  of  some  choral  tune 

forever  lost  to  our  knowledge.  Instead, 
however,  of  lamenting  this  lost  music,  the  poet  tells 
us  that 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on !  " 

How  play  on?  ask<i  the  reason,  if  we  permit  it  to 
intrude. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  loi 

"  Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone." 


Thus  again,  led  by  his  emotion  of  delight  in  the 
perpetuated  beauty  of  ancient  art,  the  poet's  im- 
agination declares  that  those  pipes  can  forever  play 
unheard  music  to  the  inner  ear. 

A  final  illustration  may  be  drawn  from  Words- 
worth's Intimations  of  Immortality.  As  a  young 
boy,  Wordsworth  had  been  deeply  im- 

'  An  example 

pressed  by  the  beauty  and  glory  of  nat-  fromWords- 
ure,  and  in  the  ode  he  represents  him-  ^^'^  ' 
self  as  finding,  in  middle  life,  that  this  glory  had 
faded  for  him, — he  could  not  see  in  flower  and  hill- 
side the  unearthly  beauty  of  his  childish  experience. 
By  an  abrupt  leap  of  the  imagination  he  is  then  led 
to  declare,  as  a  reason  for  this,  that  the  spirit  of 
man  has  a  glory  about  it  at  birth  which  comes  from 
the  immortal  world  of  souls,  and  is  dimmed  by  the 
experiences  of  earthly  life.  So  he  breaks  out  in  the 
wonderful  lines : 


"Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar : 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home." 


I02  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

Now  Wordsworth  did  not  have  a  reasoned-out 
theory  of  a  spiritual  life  before  birth,  as  he  was 
careful  to  explain  to  inquirers.  "  It  is  far  too 
shadowy  a  notion,"  he  said,  to  be  urged  upon  people 
as  a  belief;  but  has  "sufficient  foundation  in 
humanity," — that  is,  in  men's  emotions,  aspirations, 
and  imaginations, — "  for  authorizing  me  to  make 
for  my  purpose  the  best  use  of  it  I  could  as  a  poet." 
We  see,  then,  how  in  these  four  instances,  which 
are  typical  of  what  might  be  multiplied  from  all  the 
Newcombin-  K^^^^  po^ts,  the  poctic  imagination  not 
ationsandin-      only  reproduces  the  remembered  ima^^es 

terpretations  r      i  i 

made  by  the  of  the  scnscs,  but  comparcs  them  by 
imagination.  ^^^^^  methods  Suggested  by  the  emo- 
tions, combines  them  into  new  vivid  wholes,  and 
leaps  to  conclusions  which  remind  us  of  the  labori- 
ous conclusions  of  the  reason,  yet  are  quite  different 
both  in  method  and  results.  It  is  this  faculty  that 
makes  the  great  poets  akin  to  the  prophets  and 
teachers  of  the  race :  for  they  not  only  recover  for 
us  our  forever  fleeting  pleasures  of  the  senses,  but 
interpret  these  in  a  way  that  reveals  the  hidden 
significance  of  life. 

The  word  Fancy  is  often,  and  very  naturally,  con- 
fused with  the  word  Imagination.     Originally  both 
Fancy  as  an       "leant  very  nearly,  if  not  quite,  the  same 
aspect  of  im-       thing,  being  applied  to  illusions  of  the 
"         '  senses   and   also   to   the   images   raised 

in  the  mind  by  poetry  and  art.  But  their  his- 
tory has  led  them  apart,  and  the  term  Imagina- 


THE  IMAGINATION.  IO3 

tion  has  gained  dignity,  while  Fancy  has  lost 
it.  In  modern  critical  usage,  especially  as  ap- 
plied to  poetry,  fancy  is  applied  to  the  process  of 
reproducing  and  recombining  images  of  a  trifling, 
superficial,  or  transient  character,  made  use  of  in 
the  more  playful  and  consciously  decorative  poetic 
styles ;  while  imagination  is  reserved  for  the  making 
of  images  which  go  to  show  the  real  nature  of 
things,  their  spiritual  values,  and  their  permanent 
significance. — a  process  made  use  of  in  the  most 
exalted  and  serious  moods  of  the  poet.  A  common 
example  of  this  distinction  is  found  in  the  saying 
that  Shakspere's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is  a 
product  of  the  poetic  fancy,  especially  the  fairy 
creatures. — Oberon,  Titania,  Puck,  and  Robin 
Goodfellow ;  whereas  the  Tempest,  in  which  the 
action  and  characters  are  equally  remote  from 
reality,  but  are  presented  with  a  dignity  and  a  sug- 
gestion of  deep  significance  quite  different  from 
the  style  of  the  earlier  play,  is  a  product  of  the 
imagination.  Led  by  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
especially,  writers  often  treat  these  two  processes 
as  entirely  distinct ;  but  so  far  as  we  are  concerned 
with  the  terms  in  the  analysis  of  poetry,  fancy  seems 
to  be  only  one  aspect  of  the  imagination,  separ- 
ated for  convenience  in  describing  poetical  methods 
and  effects. 


For  discussions  of  the  imagination,  the  student  may 
be  referred  in  the  first  place  to  any  standard  work  on 


I04 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


psychology,  where  the  relations  of  this  faculty  to  the 
memory  are  discussed;  for  example,  Sul]x!s  Human 
Mind  (see  especially  vol.  i,  pp.  377-380).  Sully  sug- 
gests as  a  very  brief  definition  of  the  creative  imag- 
ination "  a  harmonising  of  facts  in  conformity  with 
the  needs  of  feeling."  Of  more  extended  psychologi- 
cal discussions  the  most  important  is  Ribot's  Essay  on 
the  Creative  Imagination.  From  the  literary  stand- 
point, the  imagination  is  discussed  in  recent  works 
by  Everett,  in  Poetry,  Comedy  and  Duty,  by  San- 
tayana,  in  the  first  essay  in  his  volume  called  Poetry 
and  Religion,  and  by  Alexander  in  Poetry  and  the  In- 
dividual (chap.  v).  Alexander  suggests  this  defin- 
ition of  imaginative  imagery :  "  spontaneous  mental  em- 
bodiments of  senuous  elements  so  synthesized  as  to 
possess  an  organic  unity  not  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  units  of  real  things."  (p.  125.)  But  the  standard 
discussions  of  the  creative  imagination  are  those  of 
Leigh  Hunt  in  Imagination  and  Fancy,  of  Wordsworth 
in  hiTTfelace  of  181 5.  of  Coleridge  in  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  and  of  Ruslcin  in  Modern  Painters.  For  the 
general  reader  Leigh  Hunt's  essay  is  perhaps  the  most 
valuable,  chiefly  from  the  abundance  and  excellence  of 
the  illustrative  examples ;  and  the  edition  of  it  made  in 
1893  by  Professor  A.  S.  Cook  includes  in  an  appendix 
the  important  passages  from  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge, as  well  as  a  related  passage  from  Jean  Paul 
Richter. 

Significant  passages  from  Wordsworth's  Preface 
are  these :  "  Irnagin^ation,  in  the  sense  of  the  word 
as  giving  title  to  a  class  of  the  following  poems,  has  no 
reference  to  images  that  are  merely  a  faithful  copy, 
existing  in  the  mind,  of  absent  external  objects ;  but 
is  a  word  of  higher  import,  denoting  operations  of 


THE  IMAGINATION.  I05 

the  mind  upon  those  objects,  and  processes  of  creation 
or  of  composition,  governed  by  certain  fixed  laws. 
.  .  These  processes  of  imagination  are  carried  on 
either  by  conferring  additional  properties  upon  an  ob- 
ject or  abstracting  from  it  some  of  those  which  it 
already  possesses,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  re-act  upon 
the  mind  which  hath  performed  the  process  like  a  new 
existence.  .  .  .  The  imagination  also  shapes  and 
creates  ;  and  how  ?  By  innumerable  processes  ;  and  in 
none  does  it  more  delight  than  in  that  of  consolidating 
numbers  into  unity,  and  dissolving  and  separating 
unity  into  number, — alternations  proceeding  from,  and 
governed  by,  a  sublime  consciousness  of  the  soul  in 
her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine  powers.  .  .  . 
To  aggregate  and  to  associate,  to  evoke  and  to  com- 
bine, belong  as  well  to  the  imagination  as  to  the  fancy ; 
but  either  the  materials  evoked  and  combined  are  dif- 
ferent, or  they  are  brought  together  under  a  different 
law,  and  for  a  different  purpose.  Fancy  does  not  re- 
quire that  the  materials  which  she  makes  use  of 
should  be  susceptible  of  change  in  their  constitution 
from  her  touch;  and  where  they  admit  of  modifica- 
tion, it  is  enough  for  her  purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited, 
and  evanescent.  Directly  the  reverse  of  these  are  the 
desires  and  demands  of  the  imagination.  She  recoils 
from  everything  but  the  plastic,  the  pliant,  and  the 
indefinite.  .  .  .  When  the  imagination  frames  a 
comparison,  if  it  does  not  strike  on  the  first  presenta- 
tion, a  sense  of  the  truth  of  the  likeness,  from  the  mo- 
ment that  it  is  perceived,  grows — and  continues  to 
grow — upon  the  mind ;  the  resemblance  depending  less 
upon  outline  of  form  and  feature  than  upon  expression 
and  effect ;  less  upon  casual  and  outstanding  than  upon 
inherent  and  internal  properties :  moreover,  Jhe_iii> 
ages  invariably  modify  each  other.     The  law  under 


Io6  ^>^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

which  the  processes  of  fancy  are  carried  on  is  as 
capricious  as  the  accidents  of  things,  and  the  effects 
are  surprising,  playful,  ludicrous,  amusing,  tender,  or 
pathetic,  as  the  objects  happen  to  be  appositely  pro- 
duced or  fortunately  combined.  Fancy  depends  upon 
the  rapidity  and  profusion  with  which  she  scatters  her 
thoughts  and  images ;  trusting  that  their  number,  and 
the  felicity  with  which  they  are  linked  together,  will 
make  amends  for  the  want  of  individual  value.  .  .  . 
If  she  can  win  you  over  to  her  purpose,  and  impart  to 
you  her  feelings,  she  cares  not  how  unstable  or  trans- 
itory may  be  her  influence,  knowing  that  it  will  not  be 
out  of  her  power  to  resume  it  upon  an  apt  occasion. 
But  the  imagination  is  conscious  of  an  indestructible 
dominion ; — the  soul  may  fall  away  from  it,  not  being 
able  to  sustain  its  grandeur ;  but,  if  once  felt  and  ac- 
knowledged, by  no  act  of  any  other  faculty  of  the 
mind  can  it  be  relaxed,  impaired,  or  diminished.  Fancy 
is  given  to  quicken  and  beguile  the  temporal  part  of 
our  nature,  imagination  to  incite  and  to  support  the 
eternal." 

Leigh  Hunt  describes  the  imagination  under  seven 
kinds  or  degrees :  "  First,  that  which  presents  to  the 
mind  any  object  of  circumstance  in  every-day  life; 
second,  that  which  presents  real,  but  not  every-day 
circumstances;  third,  that  which  combines  character 
and  events  directly  imitated  from  real  life,  with  imi- 
tative realities  of  its  own  invention ;  fourth,  that  which 
conjures  up  things  and  events  not  to  be  found  in  na- 
ture ;  fifth,  that  which,  in  order  to  illustrate  one  image, 
introduces  another "  (as  in  figurative  phrasing)  ; 
"  sixth,  that  which  reverses  this  process,  and  makes  a 
variety  of  circumstances  take  color  from  one,"  as  when 
nature  is  made  expressive  of  human  emotions; 
"  seventh,  and  last,  that  by  which  a  single  expression, 


THE  IMAGINATION. 


107 


apparently  of  the  vaguest  kind,  not  only  meets  but 
surpasses  in  its  effect  the  extremest  force  of  the  most 
particular  description,"  which  Hunt  illustrates  by  the 
lines  from  Christabel: 

"  Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness." 

This  classification,  while  suggestive,  is  obviously  not 
logical.  On  the  relation  of  Imagination  and  Fancy, 
Hunt  observes  that  Fancy  "  is  a  younger  sister  of 
Imagination,  without  the  other's  weight  of  thought  and  - 
feeling.  Imagination  indeed,  purely  so  called,  is  all 
feeling;  the  feeling  of  the  subtlest  and  most  affect- 
ing analogies;  the  perception  of  sympathies  in  the 
natures  of  things,  or  in  their  popular  attributes.  '^^^'^ 
Fancy  is  a  sporting  with  their  resemblance,  real 
or  supposed,  and  with  airy  and  fantastical  creations. 
.  .  .  Imagination  belongs  to  tragedy,  or  the  serious 
muse;  fancy  to  the  comic.  Macbeth,  Lear,  Paradise 
Lost,  the  poem  of  Dante,  are  full  of  imagination :  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and  the  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
of  fancy :  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  Tempest,  the  Fairy 
Queen,  and  the  Orlando  Furioso,  of  both.  .  .  .  Spenser 
has  great  imagination  and  fancy  too,  but  more  of  the 
latter ;  Milton  both  also,  the  very  greatest,  but  with  im- 
agination predominant ;  Chaucer  the  strongest  imagin- 
ation of  real  life,  beyond  any  writers  but  Homer,  Dante, 
and  Shakespeare,  and  in  comic  painting  inferior  to 
none;  Pope  has  hardly  any  imagination,  but  he  has  a 
great  deal  of  fancy ;  Coleridge  little  fancy,  but  imagin- 
ation exquisite.  Shakespeare  alone,  of  all  poets  that 
ever  lived,  enjoyed  the  regard  of  both  in  equal 
perfection." 

The    most   important   passages    in    Coleridge's   ac- 


I08  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

count  of  the  imagination  are  found  in  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  chapters  iv,  xii,  and  xiii.  "  The  first  and 
most  important  point  to  be  proved  is,  that  two  con- 
ceptions perfectly  distinct  are  confused  under  one  and 
the  same  word,  and  (this  done)  to  appropriate  that 
word  exclusively  to  one  meaning,  and  the  synonyme 
(should  there  be  one)  to  the  other.  ...  In  the 
present  instance  the  appropriation  has  already  begun, 
and  been  legitimated  in  the  derivative  adjective:  Mil- 
ton had  a  highly  imaginative,  Cowley  a  very  fanciful 
mind.  ...  To  the  faculty  by  which  I  had  char- 
acterized Milton,  we  should  confine  the  term  imagina- 
tion; while  the  other  would  be  contradistinguished  as 
fancy.  Now  were  it  once  fully  ascertained  that  this 
division  is  no  less  grounded  in  nature,  than  that  of 
delirium  from  mania,  or   Otway's 

*  Lutes,  lobsters,  seas  of  milk,  and  ships  of  amber/ 

from  Shakespeare's 

*  What !  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this  pass  ?  ' 

or  from  the  preceding  apostrophe  to  the  elements; 
the  theory  of  the  fine  arts,  and  of  poetry  in  particu- 
lar, could  not,  I  thought,  but  derive  some  additional 
and  important  light." 

"  After  a  more  accurate  perusal  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's remarks  on  the  imagination,  in  his  preface  to 
the  new  edition  of  his  poems,  I  find  that  my  conclu- 
sions are  not  so  consentient  with  his  as,  I  confess,  I 
had  taken  for  granted.  .  .  .  If  by  the  power  of 
evoking  and  combining,  Mr.  Wordsworth  means  the 
same  as,  and  no  more  than,  I  meant  by  the  aggregative 
and  associative,  I  continue  to  deny  that  it  belongs  at 


THE  IMAGIN/ITION.  IO9 

all  to  the  imagination ;  and  I  am  disposed  to  con- 
jecture that  he  has  mistaken  the  co-presence  of  fancy 
with  imagination  for  the  operation  of  the  latter  singly." 
(The  imagination  Coleridge  distinguishes  as  the 
**  shaping  and  modifying  pgvver.") 

"  The  imagination,  then,  I  consider  either  as  primary 
or  secondary.  The  primary  imagination  I  hold  to 
be  the  living  Power  and  prime  Agent  of  all  human 
Perception,  and  as  a  repetition  in  the  finite  mind  of  the 
eternal  act  of  creation  in  the  infinite  I  am.  The  secon- 
dary imagination  I  consider  as  an  echo  of  the  former, 
co-existing  with  the  conscious  will,  yet  still  as  identical 
with  the  primary  in  the  kind  of  its  agency,  and  differ- 
ing only  in  degree  and  in  the  mode  of  its  operation. 
It  dissolves,  diffuses,  dissipates,  in  order  to  recreate ; 
or  where  this  process  is  rendered  impossible,  yet  still 
at  all  events  it  struggles  to  idealize  and  to  unify.  It 
is  essentially  vital,  even  as  all  objects  {as  objects)  are 
essentially  fixed  and  dead.  Fancy,  on  the  contrary, 
has  no  other  counters  to  play  with  but  fixities  and 
definites.  The  fan^cy  is  indeed  no  other  than  a  mode  of 
memory  emancipated  from  the  order  of  time  and 
space."  The  further  exposition  of  the  subject,  prom- 
ised as  part  of  an  essay  "  on  the  uses  of  the  super- 
natural in  poetry,"  Coleridge  never  achieved. 

For  the  adequate  understanding  of  the  distinc- 
tion between  imagination  and  fancy,  as  developed  by 
Coleridge  and  his  contemporaries,  far  more  study  of 
its  philosophical  basis  is  necessary  than  can  even  be 
outlined  in  this  book.  The  best  discussion  of  the 
matter  is  that  of  Mr.  J.  Shawcross,  in  the  Introduction 
to  his  recent  edition  of  the  Biographia  Liter  aria.  The 
following  are  among  the  more  helpful  of  his  com- 
ments : 

"  In  the  apprehension  of  beauty,  therefore,  the  soul 


no  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

projects  itself  into  the  outward  forms  of  nature, 
and  invests  them  with  its  own  life.  .  .  .  The 
symbol,  and  the  mind  that  interprets  it,  must  partake 
in  a  common  spiritual  life.  The  imaginative  interpreta- 
tion of  nature  is  a  heightened  consciousness,  though 
still  only  a  mediate  consciousness  of  the  presence  of 
that  life.  .  .  .  The  symbol,  while  remaining  dis- 
tinct from  the  thing  symbolized,  is  yet  in  some  mys- 
terious way  interpenetrated  by  its  being,  and  partakes 
of  its  reality.  Such  symbolism  is  the  work  of  im- 
agination, and  an  example  of  it  is  found  in  the  poetry 
of  the  Hebrews,  in  which  *  all  objects  have  a  life  of 
their  own,  and  yet  partake  of  our  life.  In  God  .... 
they  have  their  being.'"  (pp.  xxxix,  xl.)  The  dis- 
tinction drawn  by  Coleridge  between  ''  primary  "  and 
**  secondary "  imagination,  Mr.  Shawcross  observes, 
"  is  evidently  between  the  imagination  as  universally 
active  in  consciousness  .  .  .  and  the  same  faculty 
in  a  heightened  power  as  creative  in  a  poetic  sense. 
In  the  first  case  our  exercise  of  the  power  is  uncon- 
scious :  in  the  second  the  will  directs,  though  it  does 
not  determine,  the  activity  of  the  imagination.  .  .  . 
The  ordinary  consciousness,  wath  no  principle  of  uni- 
fication, sees  the  universe  as  a  mass  of  particulars: 
only  the  poet  can  depict  this  whole  as  reflected  in  the 
individual  parts.  It  is  in  this  sense  (as  Coleridge  had 
written  many  years  before)  that  to  the  poet  'each 
thing  has  a  life  of  its  own,  and  yet  they  have  all 
our  life.'  "  In  the  same  connection  he  quotes  the 
philosopher  Schelling's  remark  that  "  every  single 
work  of  art  represents  Infinity."  (pp.  Ixvii,  Ixviii.) 
"  If  there  is  one  motive  common  to  all  genuine  poetic 
impulse,  it  is  surely  the  desire  to  objectify,  and  in  this 
object  to  know  and  love,  all  that  in  the  individual 
experience  has  seemed  worthy  of  detachment  from  the 


THE  IMAGINE  TION.  1 1 1 

fleeting  personal  life.  It  is  at  least  possible  that  such 
was  Coleridge's  meaning,  both  in  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  and  when,  years  before,  he  had  spoken  of 
the  imagination.  '  as  a  dim  analogue  of  creation.' " 
(p.  Ixxv.) 

.  Ruskin's  account  of  the  imagination  cannot  well  be 
represented  by  brief  extracts.  His  fundamental  state- 
ment is  to  the  effect  that  "  the  Imagination  has  three 
totally  distinct  functions.  It  combines,  and  by  com- 
bination creates  new  forms.  .  .  .  Again,  it  treats, 
or  regards,  both  the  simple  images  and  its  own  com- 
binations in  peculiar  ways ;  and,  thirdly,  it  penetrates, 
analyzes,  and  reaches  truths  by  no  other  faculty  dis- 
coverable.'' These  three  types  of  imagination  he  calls 
"  Combinino^  or_Associative,"  **  Regardant  or  CQuten> 
plative,"  and  "  Analytic  or  Penetrative."  All  three 
are'expounded  at  length  in  the  succeeding  chapters. 
Ruskin  also  distinguished  between  Fancy  and  Im- 
agination ;  for  example :  *'  The  fancy  sees  the  outside, 
and  is  able  to  give  a  portrait  of  the  outside,  clear, 
brilliant,  and  full  of  detail.  The  imagination  sees  the 
heart,  and  inner  nature,  and  makes  them  felt,  but  is 
often  obscure,  mysterious,  and  interrupted,  in  its  giv- 
ing of  outer  detail."  "  Fancy,  as  she  stays  at  the 
externals,  can  never  feel.  She  is  one  of  the  hardest- 
hearted  of  the  intellectual  faculties.  .  .  .  She  cannot 
be  made  serious,  no  edge-tools  but  she  will  play  with. 
Whereas  the  Imagination  is  in  all  things  the  reverse. 
She  cannot  be  but  serious ;  she  sees  too  far,  too  darkly, 
too  solemnly,  too  earnestly,  ever  to  smile."  But  in  the 
introduction  to  the  revised  edition  of  this  part  of 
Modern  Painters  (1883),  Ruskin  said:  "The  reader 
must  be  warned  not  to  trouble  himself  with  the  dis- 
tinctions .  .  .  between  Fancy  and  Imagination. 
The  subject  is  jaded,  the  matter  of  it  insignificant,  and 


112  AN  IN TRODUC  TION  TO  POE  TR  Y. 

the  settlement  of  it  practically  impossible.  ...  I 
am  myself  now  entirely  indifferent  which  word  I  use ; 
and  should  say  of  a  work  of  art  that  it  was  well 
*  fancied,'  or  well  '  invented,'  or  well  '  imagined,'  with 
only  some  shades  of  different  meaning  in  the  appli- 
cation of  the  terms,  rather  dependent  on  the  matter 
treated,  than  the  power  of  mind  involved  in  the  treat- 
ment." 

Students  of  these  various  discussions  who  do  not 
seek  to  penetrate  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  philoso- 
phical doctrine  of  the  Imagination,  will  for  the  most 
part  tend  to  agree  with  Ruskin's  later  view.  Psych- 
ology recognizes  no  distinction,  as  such,  between  this 
faculty  and  the  "  Fancy ;  "  and  from  the  standpoint  of 
literary  criticism  it  is  probably  sufficient,  as  has  al- 
ready been  suggested,  to  regard  the  latter  as  but  one 
aspect  of  the  imagination,  discriminated  at  times  be- 
cause it  deals  with  different  materials  or  for  different 
ends. 

In  the  next  place  we  have  to  consider  the  place  of 
Beauty  in  poetry.  This  term,  which  is  even  more 
Beaut  as  an  difficult  to  define  than  Imagination,  was 
element  of  omitted  from  our  definition,  except 
^°^  ^^'  so   far   as   implied   in   the   latter  word  ; 

but  in  the  definitions  of  some  critics  it  is  given 
an  important  place.  That  sense  of  satisfaction 
which  we  feel  in  anything  which  we  call  beauti- 
ful is  certainly  akin  to  the  satisfaction  which  w^e 
feel  in  works  of  art,  poetry  included.  And  if  we 
compare  these  works  of  art  with  the  objects  in 
nature  which  in  some  degree  they  represent,  we  see 
that  the  artist  seizes  upon  the  beautiful,  rejects  the 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH. 


"3 


unbeautiful,  and  moreover  makes  the  beautiful  still 
more  beautiful  by  the  form  in  which  he  represents 
it.  Clearly  this,  then,  is  one  of  the  great  uses  of  the  f 
imagination,  as  we  have  discussed  it  in  the  preceding 
paragraphs;  by  its  power  of  adding  and  rejecting, 
of  combining,  of  carrying  out  a  process  of  the 
senses  to  some  point  of  interior  perception  which 
the  senses  cannot  reach  of  themselves,  it  separates 
and  develops  the  beautiful  as  discovered  in  the 
outer  world.  Still  further,  from  the  countless  im-  2. 
perfect  beauties  of  the  world  it  is  led  to  conceive 
of  a  more  perfect  beauty  than  the  world  can  show ; 
just  as  Shelley's  lark  suggested  not  only  various 
visible  and  audible  beauties,  but  an  '*  unbodied  joy  " 
beyond  them  all,  and  as  Wordsworth's  memory  of 
the  beautiful  impressions  of  his  childhood  suggested 
a  region  of  spiritual  beauty  and  joy  of  which  the 
earthly  life  furnished  only  a  dimmed  and  fleeting 
aspect. 

Not  only  does  poetry — like  the  other  arts — deal 
with  beauty  as  its  material,  and  reveal  it  beyond      |  1 2- 
what  is  otherwise  perceived,  but  it  works   ^ 
by  the  method  of  beauty  in  its  form  and    affecting  poetic 
style.     The  poet  may  linger  on  a  matter    ^  ^  ^" 
which  is  not  essential  to  his  purpose,  as  one  may 
linger  by  the  roadside  to  pick  flowers  or  w-atch  the 
clouds,  when  not  too  hurried  on  one's  errand,  simply 
for  the  beauty  that  he  can  indulge  in  by  the  way; 
and  he  will  choose  his  words,  his   sentences,   his 
structure,  his  rhythms  and  rimes,  to  the  same  end. 


114 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


In  Other  words,  he  takes  our  ordinary  prose  speech, 
crude  and  homely  as  it  commonly  is, — just  as  he 
takes  his  scenes  and  subjects, — and  transfigures  it 
to  something  which  we  recognize  as  the  same  and 
yet  as  a  new  and  beautiful  creation.  (This  matter, 
so  far  as  it  concerns  external  form,  will  be  further 
discussed  in  chapter  iv.) 

But  we  must  notice  further  that  for  this  purpose 
the  word  beautiful  is  to  be  understood  in  a  some- 
what different  and  wider  sense  from  that 

Beanty  a 

very  inclusive  in  which  wc  commouly  use  it.  Other- 
^^^^'  wise  what  of  such  a  poetical  passage  as 

that  in  the  Faerie  Qiieene,  describing  the  foul 
monster  Error,  from  whose  mouth  there  flowed 

"  A  flood  of  poison  horrible  and  black,  .  .  . 
With  loathly  frogs  and  toads,  which  eyes  did  lack, 
And  creeping  sought  way  in  the  weedy  grass"? 

Or  of  Browning's  Caliban,  lying 

"  Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin  "  ? 

Here  we  have  deliberate  ugliness,  not  only  in 
subject-matter  but  in  style.  And  the  same  problem, 
carried  further,  will  lead  us  to  the  revolting  themes 
of  suffering  and  sin,  such  as  we  have  already  con- 
sidered briefly  in  connection  with  tragedy.  Such 
matters  raise  very  deep  questions,  over  which  we 
cannot  pause  for  the  present  purpose.     It  is  enough 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH.  II5 

to  notice  that,  just  as  we  saw  that  there  is  a  strange 
pleasure  derived  from  the  contemplation  of  pain, 
when  presented  under  proper  poetical  conditions,  so 
there  is  a  strange  beauty  perceived  in  ugliness,  under 
proper  conditions.  Sometimes  we  may  regard  it  as 
beautiful  only  because  it  sets  off  more  strikingly 
the  beauty  of  other  objects  with  which  it  is  asso- 
ciated; sometimes  because  it  seems  that  any  object 
of  creation  may  be  beautiful  if  portrayed  in  a  way 
to  set  forth  its  real  character  and  significance ;  some- 
times, again,  because  the  ugly  object  has  a  place  in 
the  development  of  some  great  beautiful  whole 
which  the  poet  is  creating.  All  three  of  these  ex- 
planations are  illustrated  by  the  hideous,  grinning 
gargoyles  with  which  the  mediaeval  architects  deco- 
rated their  cathedrals,  and  which — almost  infin- 
itely ugly  in  themselves — both  contrast  wath  and 
contribute  to  the  great  totality  of  beauty  and  wor- 
ship for  which  the  cathedral  stands.  The  test  of 
beauty,  then,  is  not  in  the  form  or  nature  of  an 
object  or  a  theme,  but  in  the  impression  of  satis- 
faction which  it  produces ,as  presented  by  the  artist. 
We  are  now  led  very  naturally  to  our  next  ques- 
tion, which  has  to  do  with  the  relation  of  poetry  to 
Truth.     All  that   can  be  said   on  this   „,      ,   . 

,        ,     1       -1  t       r  ,  The  relation 

matter  is  directly  deducible  from  what   of  poetry 
we  have  already  discussed.     In  the  first   *°*^^^^* 
chapter  we  saw  that  poetry  is  to  be  contrasted  with 
science,  as  not  concerned  for  truth  in  the  literal  or 
objective  sense  in  which  science  is  concerned  for  it. 


a^  a 


1X6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

It  uses  external  facts  just  as  far  as  it  chooses,  adding 
to  or  subtracting  from  them  whenever  its  purpose 
will  serve.  The  reason  for  this  was  explained  by 
Bacon,  in  the  passage  already  quoted :  "  the 
world,"  he  said,  is  "  in  proportion  " — that  is,  in 
symmetry  or  perfection  of  form — ''  inferior  to  the 
soul;  by  reason  whereof  there  is  agreeable  to  the 
spirit  of  man  a  more  ample  greatness,  a  more  exact 
goodness,  and  a  more  absolute  variety  than  can  be 
found  in  the  nature  of  things."  And  Bacon  was  no 
doubt  only  echoing  what  he  had  read  in  Aristotle, 
the  first  of  writers  on  poetry,  that  "  poetry  is  a 
more  philosophical  and  a  higher  thing  than  history," 
because — as  he  explained — history  is  limited  to  par- 
ticular facts,  while  poetry  deals  with  the  universal 
truths  which  particular  facts  only  partially  represent. 
Shelley  set  forth  the  same  thought  in  these  words : 
"  There  is  this  difference  between  a  story  and  a 
poem,  that  a  story  *  is  a  catalogue  of  detached  facts, 
which  have  no  other  connection  than  time,  place, 
circumstance,  cause  and  effect;  the  other  is  the 
creation  of  actions  according  to  the  unchangeable 
forms  of  human  nature,  as  existing  in  the  mind  of 
the  Creator,  which  is  itself  the  image  of  all  other 
minds.  ...  A  story  of  particular  facts  is  as 
a  mirror  which  obscures  and  distorts  that  which 
should  be  beautiful :  poetry  is  a  mirror  which  makes 
beautiful  that  which  is  distorted." 

*  By  story  he  means  a  narrative  of  facts. 


BEAUTY  AND   TRUTH.  II7 

It  Is  evident  from  this  use  of  the  word  "  beauti- 
ful "  that  Shelley  has  in  mind  what  we  ah'eady  con- 
sidered— the  fact  that  the  imagination   ^p^^pauty 
forms   from  the  numberless   facts  pre-    and  truth 

,    ,  ,  '11  identical ? 

sented  by  the  senses  an  ideal  greater 
and  more  satisfying  than  any  of  them;  this 
is  what  is  meant  both  by  ideal  beauty  and  by 
universal  truth.  Now  are  these  the  same  thing? 
Can  we  accept  the  saying  of  Keats,  drawn  from  his 
reflections  on  the  Grecian  urn,  that  "  Beauty  is 
Truth,  Truth  Beauty"?  Certainly  not,  if  we  have 
in  mind  mere  beauty  of  form.  Not  only  is  the 
ugly  to  be  accepted  as  having  its  place  in  the  world, 
as  we  have  seen  is  true  even  in  poetry,  but  we  know 
that  many  of  the  finest  and  truest  things  in  life  are 
presented  to  us  in  a  form  that  does  not  appeal  at 
all  to  what  we  call  the  aesthetic  sense, — the  sense  of 
beauty  of  form.  It  was  even  written  of  the  Man  of 
Sorrows,  as  foreseen  by  the  prophet :  "  He  hath 
no  form  nor  comeliness;  and  when  we  see  him, 
there  is  no  beauty  that  we  should  desire  him."  But 
if  we  mean  by  beauty  that  eternal  sense  of  inward 
perfection  which  the  spirit  of  man  is  ever  seeking 
after,  and  imagining  as  suggested  and  fore- 
shadowed by  the  things  of  the  visible  world,  then 
'  we  may  think  it  possible — though  we  cannot  cer- 
\  tainly  say — that  beauty  fullv  revealed  w^ould  be  the 
,'  same  thing  as  truth  fully  known.  We  may  say, 
at  any  rate,  that  the  greatest  poets  have  had  for 
their  aim  something  which,  though  it  includes  the 


Il8  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

giving  of  pleasure  to  the  senses,  is  akin  to  the  aim 
of  scientists  and  philosophers  in  their  search  for 
truth. 

When,  then,  or  to  what  extent,  can  we  speak  of 
poetry  as  truthful?  When  it  is  true  to  human  ex- 
„,     .  perience  in   general,   when   it  awakens 

when  13  .  . 

poetry  gcuume  emotious,  and  when  it  sets  forth 

^^^^  ^  true   ideals   of   the   imagination.      Per- 

haps no  more  suggestive  example  of  the  difference 
between  objective  and  poetical  truth  could  be  found 
than  the  figure  of  King  Arthur,  hero  of  British 
legendry,  who  passed  from  the  place  of  a  personage 
in  national  tradition  to  that  of  the  central  figure  in 
a  great  imaginative  cycle  of  romance.  Now, 
through  the  researches  of  scientific  historians,  he 
has  been  relegated  to  the  place  of  a  successful  tribal 
chieftain  on  the  Welsh  borders,  doubtless  a 
thorough  barbarian,  not  to  say  pagan.  Yet  we 
easily  dismiss  this  historic  Arthur  from  our  minds, 
admitting  him  to  be  objectively  true,  and  there  re- 
mains living  with  us  instead  the  other  figure  of  the 
Arthur  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  ideal  leader  of  an 
ideal  host  of  Christian  chivalry,  whose  conflicts 
with  inner  and  outer  foes  are  forever  typical  of 
"  sense  at  war  with  soul." 

It  is  because  of  its  function  of  presenting  these 

universal   and    ideal   truths   that   poets 

a  teacher  have     commonly    been     regarded — de- 

ofman.  ^^-^^^    ^^^    ^^^^    ^|^^^    ^1^^^    vjutt    tO    give 

pleasure  to  themselves  and  to  others — as  having  a 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH.  ng 

place  beside  prophets  and  teachers  of  the  race. 
Thus  Shelley  was  led  to  say:  "Poetry  is  indeed 
something  divine.  It  is  at  once  the  centre  and  cir- 
cumference of  knowledge;  ...  at  the  same 
time  the  root  and  blossom  of  all  other  systems  of 
thought."  And  Wordsworth :  "  Poetry  is  the 
breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge;  .  .  . 
the  poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all  human  beings 
join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  truth  as 
our  visible  friend  and  hourly  companion."  And 
Emerson :  "  The  only  teller  of  news  is  the  poet. 
When  he  sings,  the  world  listens  with  the  assurance 
that  now  a  secret  of  God  is  to  be  spoken."  In  all 
these  sayings  the  emphasis  is  evidently  on  that  ideal 
truth  which  we  have  seen  it  is  the  business  of  poetry 
to  reveal. 

No  poet  has  spoken  on  the  subject  of  the  relation 
of  art  to  truth  more  clearly  than  Browning.  In 
leaving  it,  let  us  notice  two  suggestive  passages 
from  his  works.  In  the  first  he  tells  us  that  Art 
may  be  called 

"  the  love  of  loving,  rage 
Of   knowing,    seeing,    feeling   the   absolute    truth    of 

things 
For  truth's  sake,  whole  and  sole,  not  any  good  truth 

brings 
The  knovver,  seer,  feeler."     {Fifine  at  the  Fair,  xliv.) 

In  the  other,  at  the  close  of  his  greatest  poem,  The 
Ring  and  the  Book,  he  imagines  one  asking  him — 


I20  ^'V  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

"  Why  take  the  artistic  way  to  prove  so  much  ?  " 

and  answers: 

"  Because,  it  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art 
That  Art  remains  the  one  way  possible 
Of  speaking  truth,  to  mouths  like  mine  at  least." 

A  particular  truth  about  a  particular  man,  he  goes 
on  to  say,  is  likely  to  be  misunderstood  and  to  fail 
of  its  purpose;  art  is  addressed  not  to  individual 
men,  but  "  to  mankind,"  and  tells  ''  a  truth  ob- 
liquely." 

"  So  you  may  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth, 
Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall, — 
So,  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 
Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived, — 
So  write  a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facts, 
Suffice  the  eye — and  save  the  soul  beside." 

On  the  subject  of  the  beautiful  and  the  ideal  as 
related  to  poetry  the  student  will  find  valuable  dis- 
cussions in  Butcher's  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry, 
Hegel's  remarks  on  the  Ideal  as  related  to  Art,  Emer- 
son's essay  on  Poetry  and  Imagination,  Wordsworth's 
Prefaces,  Knight's  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful  (Pt. 
II,  chap,  viii),  Santayana's  Poetry  and  Religion,  and 
Alexander's  Poetry  and  the  Individual. 

Important  passages  from  Hegel  are  these :  "  Man, 
then,  shut  in  on  every  hand  in  the  finite,  and  aspir- 
ing to  pass  out  of  it,  turns  his  glance  toward  a  higher 
sphere,  truer  and  purer,  where  all  the  conflicts  and 
contradictions  of  the  finite  disappear,  where  liberty, 


BEAUT Y  AND  TRUTH.  121 

expanding  without  obstacles  or  limits,  attains  its  su- 
preme end.  This  is  the  region  of  art,  and  of  its  reality, 
the  ideal.  The  necessity  of  the  beautiful  in  art  and 
poetry  arises,  then,  from  the  imperfections  of  the  real. 
The  mission  of  art  is  to  represent,  under  sensible 
forms,  the  free  development  of  life  and  especially  of 
the  spirit.  It  is  only  then  that  the  true  is  detached 
from  accidental  and  ephemeral  circumstances,  deliv- 
ered from  the  law  which  condemns  it  to  run  the  course 
of  finite  things.     .     .     . 

"  Truth  in  art,  then,  is  not  mere  fidelity,  as  implied 
in  the  definition  '  imitation  of  nature.'  It  consists  in 
the  perfect  expression  of  the  idea  which  art  manifests 
and  realizes.  ...  It  is  exclusively  the  function  of 
the  ideal  to  place  exterior  form  in  harmony  with  the 
soul, — to  bring  together  exterior  reality  and  spiritual 
nature,  so  that  external  appearance  shall  conform  to 
the  spirit  of  which  it  is  the  manifestation.  But  this 
spiritualizing  process,  even  in  poetry,  does  not  go  so 
far  as  to  present  the  general  idea  under  its  abstract 
form  ;  it  stops  at  the  intermediate  point,  where  purely 
sensible  form  and  pure  spirit  meet  and  agree.  Art 
is  found  at  that  precise  point  of  mediation  where  the 
idea,  not  being  able  to  develop  under  its  abstract  or 
general  form,  stands  enclosed  in  an  individual  reality." 
(Benard,  vol.  i,  pp.  xi-xiii.) 

The  last  of  these  sentences  reminds  us  of  the  exag- 
geration of  the  doctrine  of  the  *'  universal "  as  the 
theme  of  art,  now  recognized  as  characteristic  of  the 
neo-classical  period,  at  its  height  in  England  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  represents 
this  doctrine,  both  in  his  Discourses  on  Painting  and 
in  the  papers  which  he  contributed  to  the  Idler  (Nos. 
76,  79,  82),  which  are  a  plea  for  generalization.  Since 
art  is  based  on  the  universal  or  ideal,  it  is  at  its  best 


122  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

when  it  has  "  the  least  of  common  nature ;  "  the  source 
of  beauty  is  the  discarding  of  particulars  and  the  dis- 
covery of  the  typical  or  general  form.  Students  will 
find  it  profitable  to  compare  the  portraits  of  Reynolds, 
in  illustration  of  this,  with  those  of  an  individualist 
like  George  Frederick  Watts.  In  Dr.  Johnson's  re- 
marks on  the  style  of  Dry  den's  Annus  Mirabilis  we  get 
a  clue  to  the  way  in  which  the  same  doctrine  led  to  the 
avoidance  of  concrete  diction  so  characteristic  of  the 
neo-classical  poetry.  "  It  is  a  general  rule,"  he  ob- 
serves, "  in  poetry  that  all  appropriated  terms  of  art 
should  be  sunk  in  general  expressions,  because  poetry 
is  to  speak  an  universal  language."  The  danger  of 
the  doctrine  lay  in  its  fundamental  correctness  as  to 
the  principle  of  ideality,  without  the  caution,  as  in- 
dicated by  Hegel,  that  this  ideality  is  nevertheless  to  be 
expressed  in  terms  of  individual  reality. 

Our  next  question  has  to  do  with  the  relation  of 
what  we  have  been  considering  to  the  subject-mat- 
„  ter   of    poetry:    is   there    any    class    of 

Has  poetry  a  ...  .     . 

special  kind  of  themes  with  which  it  characteristically 
su  J ect  matter?    ^jg^jg^  ^^^  ^^^  there  Other  classes  which 

are  excluded  from  its  territory?  At  first  thought 
one  is  likely  to  try  to  define  some  limitations  of  this 
sort,  because  of  a  general  impression  that  poetry 
treats  as  a  rule  only  lofty  or  dignified  themes,  more 
particularly  such  as  love,  beauty,  and  faith,  and 
avoids  the  low  and  the  commonplace.  Yet  further 
reflection  will  perhaps  suggest  that  what  we  have 
in  mind  is  not  so  much  the  subject-matter  of  the 
poet,  as  it  is  what  he  makes  of  that  subject-matter; 
and  the  weight  of  the  testimony  of  the  critics  is 


SUBJECT  MATTER.  I23 

against  limiting  him  at  all  in  the  choice  of  material. 
Thus  Leigh  Hunt  says  of  poetry,  after  defining  it 
as  **  the  utterance  of  a  passion  for  truth,  beauty,  and 
power,"  that  ''  its  means  are  whatever  the  universe 
contains."  And  Emerson  says  of  the  poet:  *'  There 
is  no  subject  that  does  not  belong  to  him, —  politics, 
economy,  manufactures  and  stockbrokerage,  as 
much  as  sunsets  and  souls;  only,  these  things,  placed 
in  their  true  order,  are  poetry;  displaced,  or  put  in 
kitchen  order,  they  are  unpoetic."  {Poetry  and 
Imagination.)  In  both  cases  the  inference  is  that 
what  we  call  poetical  is  not  an  attribute  of  objects  in 
themselves,  but  of  the  treatment  they  receive,  the 
purpose  of  him  who  handles  them,  and  the  result  of 
his  work. 

It  is  clear  that  there  are  certain  objects  which  we 
instinctively  feel  are  more  susceptible  of  poetical 
treatment  than  others :  flowers  rather 
than  potatoes,  sunshine  rather  than  po^elrmateriai. 
electric  light,  sailing  vessels  rather 
than  steamships,  horses  rather  than  automobiles. 
Analyzing  our  feeling  a  little  further,  we  see  that 
w^e  are  more  likely  to  attach  imaginative  concep- 
tions to  things  which  are  obviously  beautiful  than 
to  those  which  are  merely  useful,  and  to  things 
which  are  distant  in  place  or  time  than  to  those 
recent  and  familiar;  for  this  reason  all  the  fine  arts 
deal  more  largely  with  the  former  classes  than  wi  h 
the  latter.  But  after  all,  a  poet  may  at  any  time 
show  the  imaginative  possibilities  of  objects  in  the 


124  '^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

other  classes.  The  poets  of  Shakspere's  time — in- 
cluding even  Shakspere  himself — held  that  for 
great  poems  great  personages  and  their  emotions 
were  the  most  fitting  material, — kings,  princes,  and 
others  obviously  impressive  and  heroic.  There  is 
no  tragedy  earlier  than  the  modern  period  treating  of 
the  sufferings  of  lowly  people  in  familiar  life.  But 
this  opinion  has  changed.  Wordsworth  in  Michael, 
Tennyson  in  Dora,  Browning  in  The  Ring  and  the 
Book,  have  shown  that  the  elements  of  tragedy  and 
of  poetry  are  the  same  for  persons  of  any  class.* 
Again,  it  is  common  to  say  that  for  the  poet  the 
sun  still  rises  and  sets;  that  the  modern  scientific 
notion  of  the  earth  going  round  the  sun,  wnth  all  the 
other  planets,  has  no  place  in  poetry.  Yet  Tennyson 
has  used  this  modern  notion  in  one  of  the  loveliest 
of  his  lyrics: 

"  Move  eastward,  happy   earth,   and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow : 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O  happy  planet,  eastward  go.   .    .    . 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

*  The  tendency  is  still  to  prefer  dignified  persons  and  themes  for 
the  matter  of  tragedy,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  to  make  tragic 
poetry  of  those  of  low  life  is  a  very  difificult  problem  ;  Tennyson's 
Prornise  of  May  is  an  instance  of  such  an  experiment,  far  from  suc- 
cessful. But  there  has  been  too  little  poetic  tragedy  in  modern 
English  literature  to  enable  one  to  generalize  as  to  its  normal 
development. 


SUBJECT  MATTER.  1 25 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night." 

Once  more,  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of  ma- 
chiner}' — both  because  it  is  less  beautiful  in  itself 
than  more  natural  processes,  and  because  its  associ- 
ations are  so  familiar  and  sordid — as  shut  out  from 
poetry  and  the  other  arts.  But  Kipling,  in  one  of 
his  most  interesting  poems,  McAndrciv's  Hymn, 
has  refuted  this  idea  botli  in  precept  and  example. 
The  tlieme  is  the  steam-engine  that  drives  the  ocean 
liner,  whose  unerring  and  majestic  movements  sug- 
gest to  the  Scotch  engineer  not  only 

"  Law,  order,  duty  and  restraint,  obedience,  discipline," 

but  the  very  majesty  of  the  ordained  movements 
of  the  universe  according  to  a  predestinating 
Mind.*  And — as  if  to  scorn  some  imagined  critic  of 
this  unpromising  material — the  poet  represents  the 
engineer  as  relating  the  question  of  a  convention- 
ally superficial  passenger,  who  asks  if  he  does  not 
think  "  that  steam  has  spoiled  romance  at  sea." 
Following  up  the  contemptuous  reply  to  this,  we 
have  the  petition — 


**  God  send  a  man  like  Robbie  Burns  to  sing  the  song  of 
steam  ! " 

*  Compare  the  sonnet  by  Charles  Tennyson  on  A  Steam  Thresh- 
hig  Machine,  which  suggested  to  him  "  mind  and  matter,  will  and 
law." 


126  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

This  in  itself  is  full  of  suggestion.     Burns,  though 

writing  before   the   age  of    steam,    had    widened 

the  field  of  poetry  to  include  the  field-mouse,  the 

jolly  beggar, — any  of  the  least  of  God's  creatures; 

McAndrew  feels  instinctively  that  it  is  of  the  same 

spirit  to  widen  the  field  of  poetry  so  as  to  include 

all  the  new  forces  of  modern  life. 

We  may  conclude,  therefore,  that  the  material  of 

poetry,  if  it  does  not  embrace  whatever  the  universe 

contains,     admits     whatever     may     be 
Tte  two  .      ,  ,  '  .         .       .  ,  , 

methods  of  poetic  scizcd  by  the  imagmation  and  made  to 

treatment.  appeal  to  the  emotions ;  and  we  should 

be  very  slow  to  mark  anything  as  outside  this  possi- 
bility. It  is  true  that  certain  great  and  obviously 
imaginative  themes, — the  same  that  we  call  **  ro- 
mantic "  in  character,  such  as  love,  war,  faith,  and 
death, — will  no  doubt  always  remain  the  chief 
themes  of  poetry;  yet  even  these  themes  may  be 
found  in  almost  any  corner  of  life.  In  this  con- 
nection we  may  recall  that  great  saying  of  Cole- 
ridge, as  to  the  purpose  which  he  and  Wordsworth 
had  in  writing  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  a  book  which  was 
the  forerunner  of  a  whole  new  age  of  ideas  of 
poetry:  one  aim,  as  exemplified  especially  in  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  was  to  treat  romantic  and  un- 
familiar objects  *'  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  in- 
ward nature  a  human  interest  and  a  semblance  of 
truth  suf^cient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  im- 
agination that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief  for 
the  moment  which  constitutes  poetic  faith ; "  the 


SUBJEC T  MAT TER.  1 2 7 

other,  exampled  especially  in  the  narrative  poems 
of  Wordsworth,  was  "  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty 
to  things  of  every  day,"  and  awaken  feelings  no  less 
romantic  than  those  suggested  by  the  unfamiliar  or 
even  the  supernatural,  by  directing  the  mind  ''  to 
the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  before 
us."  (Biog.  Lit.,  chap,  xiv.)  One  or  the  other  of 
these  tasks  is  always  before  the  poet,  and  between 
the  two  it  is  no  wonder  if  all  the  objects  of  experi- 
ence are  included  in  his  material. 

Of  the  various  discussions  of  the  appropriate  sub- 
ject-matter of  poetry,  the  most  interesting  is  that 
aroused  by  the  controversy  between  Rev.  Samuel 
Bowles  and  Lord  Byron,  in  connection  with  the  poetry 
of  Pope.  A  good  account  of  it  may  conveniently  be 
found  in  Beers's  Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, chap,  ii ;  the  principal  contribution  of  Byron  to 
the  discussion  is  reprinted  in  Rhys's  Literary  Pam- 
phlets, vol.  ii.  Bowles's  chief  doctrine  was  summarized 
in  the  statement  that  **  all  images  drawn  from  what  is 
beautiful  or  sublime  in  the  works  of  nature  are  more 
beautiful  and  sublime  than  any  images  drawn  from 
art,  and  they  are  therefore  per  se  (abstractedly)  more 
poetical."  Byron,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that 
objects  of  art  are  quite  as  poetical,  per  se,  as  objects 
of  nature ;  that  the  Parthenon  is  more  poetical  than 
the  rock  on  which  it  stands,  and  that  if  Bowles  were 
correct,  a  pig  scudding  before  a  gale  of  wind  would 
be  more  poetical  than  a  ship  scudding  before  the  gale. 
As  Professor  Beers  justly  observes,  the  whole  discus- 
sion was  futile;  the  distinction  between  objects  of 
nature  and  of  art  cannot  be  drawn  with  critical  accur- 
acy, and  in  any  case  no  object  is  either  poetical  or  the 


128  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

contrary  in  itself.  More  important,  though  no  less 
unsatisfactory,  was  the  contention  of  Wordsworth 
that  persons  and  objects  of  humble  and  rustic  life 
form  the  most  fitting  subject  of  poetry,  "  because  in 
that  condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  co-exist 
in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and  consequently  may 
be  more  accurately  contemplated  and  more  forcibly 
communicated ;  because  the  manners  of  rural  life  ger- 
minate from  those  elementary  feelings ;  .  .  .  and 
lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are 
incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms 
of  nature."  (Pref.  to  Lyrical  Ballads.) 

In  the  last  place,  we  have  to  inquire  what  is  the 

relation  of  the  matters  we  have  been  considering 

to  the  style  of  poetry.     Fundamentally 

Haspoetrya       ^|^g  question  arises  whether  the  style  of 

special  style  7  ^  -^ 

poetry  is  to  be  regarded  as  different 
from  that  of  prose, — a  question  to  wdiich  different 
answers  have  been  made  by  different  critics,  and  to 
which  the  safest  reply  is  probably  this :  the  style 
of  poetry  does  not  differ  necessarily  from  that  of 
prose,  since  both  are  made  up  of  human  speech  deal- 
ing with  the  objects  of  human  experience;  but,  as 
a  result  of  the  emotional  and  imaginative  qualities 
of  poetry,  its  style  shows  certain  tendencies  of  its 
own  which  deserve  separate  consideration.  This 
may  be  conveniently  illustrated  by  considering  cer- 
tain passages. 

"  And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth 
year. 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat. 


STYLE.  129 

Father  and  son,  while  far  into  the  night 

The  housewife  pHed  her  own  pecuHar  work."* 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light."  f 

"  What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth? 
Most  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there — eat  and   drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate. 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,   achieving 
Nothing;  and  then  they  die."  J 

"  Then  none  was  for  a  party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great : 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old."  ** 

In    all    these    there    is    not    a    word    and    not    a 
phrase  which  is  in  any  way  character-   The  "neutral" 
istic    of    poetry;    destroy    the    rhythm   ^*y^®' 
and  the  rime,  and  you  will  have  a  series  of  sen- 

*  Wordsworth  :  Michael. 

t  Wordsworth  :  She  was  a  Phantom  0/  Delight. 

X  Arnold  :  Rugby  Chapel. 

**  Macaulay :  Horatius. 


I30 


/iN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


tences  such  as  might  occur  in  any  prose  passage  on  a 
similar  subject.  This  is  the  style  which  Coleridge 
called  "  neutral,"  equally  appropriate  for  prose  or 
poetry.  But  one  could  not  easily  find  an  entire 
poem  in  this  style.  If  we  look  a  little  further,  for 
example,  in  the  poem  from  which  the  first  passage 
was  taken,  w^e  find : 

"  And    when   by     Heaven's   good    grace    the    boy 
grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old." 

Or  in  the  third  poem,  this: 

"  No  one  asks 
Who  or  what  they  have  been, 
More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 
In   the    moonlit    solitudes    mild 
Of    the    midmost    ocean,    have    swelled, 
Foamed  for  a  moment,  and  gone." 

Or  in  the  fourth : 

"  Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 

Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 
Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold." 

In  these  passages,  though  there  may  be  few  words 
or  phrases  which  cannot  be  imagined  as  occurring  in 
legitimate  prose,  yet  we  feel  at  once  that  the  style 
is  distinctive  of  poetry. 


STYLE. 


131 


On  the  other    hand,    consider    such  The  prosaic 
passages  as  these :  **y^®' 

"  And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 
His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swol'n  and  thick ; 
His  legs  are  thin  and  dry.  ''■'' 

"  I've  measured  it  from  side  to  side, 
'Tis  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide."  f 

"  Only   the   ass,    with    motion   dull, 

Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turns  round  his  long  left  ear."  i 

"  '  Thus  sanctioned,' 
The  pastor  said,  '  I  willingly  confine 
My  narratives  to  subjects  that  excite 
Feelings  with  these  accordant ;  love,  esteem, 
And   admiration.    .    .    . 

And  yet  there  are, 
I  feel,  good  reasons  why  we  should  not  leave 
Wholly  untraced  a  more  forbidding  way. 
For  strength  to  persevere  and  to  support. 
And  energy  to  conquer  and   repel — 
These  elements  of  virtue,  that  declare 
The  native  grandeur  of  the  human  soul — 

*  Wordsworth  :  Simon  Lee. 
t  Wordsworth  :   The  Thorn. 

These  verses  were  altered  in  the  revised  edition  of  Wordsworth's 
poems,  so  as  to  read  : 

"Though  but  of  compass  small,  and  bare 
To  thirsty  suns  and  parching  air." 

X  Wordsworth  :  Peter  Bell. 


^ 


132  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

Are  ofttimes  not  unprofitably  shown 

In  the  perverseness  of  a  selfish  course/  "  * 

In  all  which  we  discover  a  style  that  is  felt  to  be 
more  appropriate  to  prose  than  to  poetry,  one  which 
arouses  a  feeling  of  surprise,  perhaps  annoyance, 
at  finding  it  conjoined  with  the  verse  form.  The 
reasons  for  these  impressions  each  reader  will  do 
well  to  try  to  discover  for  himself. 

^     "1^^  The   illustrations   of   style   inappropriate   to  poetry 

i'Ttw:  „  were  chosen  from  Wordsworth  in  order  to  suggest 
the  discussion,  here  naturally  in  place,  of  his  theory  of 
poetic  diction,  as  compared  with  his  practice.  This 
theory  was  largely  due  to  two  things :  his  desire  to 
present  his  own  emotions  to  his  readers  as  directly  as 
possible,  and  his  dislike  of  the  conventionalized  *'  poetic 
diction  "  of  the  eighteenth  century,  overlaid  as  a  deco- 
ration upon  natural  speech.  The  most  significant 
passages  from  his  discussion  of  the  subject  are  these : 
"  The  language,  too,  of  these  men  "  (I.  e.,  those  of 
humble  rural  life)  "  has  been  adopted  (purified  indeed 
from  what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all  last- 
ing and  rational  causes  of  dishke  and  disgust),  because 
such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects 
from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  de- 
rived ;  and  because,  from  their  rank  and  society  and 
the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse, 
being  less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity,  they 
convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  un- 
elaborated  expressions.  Accordingly,  such  language, 
arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and  regular  feel- 
ings, is  a  more  permanent,  and  a  far  more  philosophical 

*  Wordsworth  :   The  Excursion. 


STYLE.  ,33 

language,  than  that  which  is  frequently  substituted  for 
it  by  poets."  "  The  reader  will  find  that  personifica- 
tions of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in  these  volumes, 
and  are  utterly  rejected  as  an  ordinary  device  to  ele- 
vate the  style  and  raise  it  above  prose.  My  purpose 
w^as  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt  the 
very  language  of  men ;  and  assuredly  such  personi- 
fications do  not  make  any  natural  or  regular  part  of 
that  language.  .  .  .  There  will  also  be  found  in  these 
volumes  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic  diction ; 
as  much  pains  has  been  taken  to  avoid  it  as  is  ordin- 
arily taken  to  produce  it :  this  has  been  done  for  the 
reason  already  alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to 
the  language  of  men."  '*  It  may  be  safely  affirmed 
that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  essential  dififer- 
ence  between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical 
composition.  .  .  .  The  language  of  such  poetry  as  is 
here  recommended  is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection 
of  the  language  really  spoken  by  men  :  [and]  this  selec- 
tion, wherever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and  feeling, 
will  of  itself  form  a  distinction  far  greater  than  would 
at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely  separate  the  com- 
position from  the  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  ordinary 
life.  .  .  .  What  is  a  Poet?  To  whom  does  he  address 
himself?  And  what  language  is  to  be  expected  from 
him  ?  He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men ....  It  will  be 
the  w'ish  of  the  Poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to  those 
of  the  persons  wdiose  feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for 
short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into 
an  entire  delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify 
his  owm  feelings  wath  theirs :  modifying  only  the  lan- 
guage which  is  thus  suggested  to  him  by  a  consider- 
ation that  he  describes  for  a  particular  purpose,  that 
of  giving  pleasure.  Here,  then,  he  will  apply  the 
principle  of  selection  which  has  been  already  insisted 


134 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 


upon.  He  will  depend  upon  this  for  removing  what 
would  otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in  the 
passion ;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to  trick 
out  or  to  elevate  nature :  and  the  more  industriously  he 
applies  this  principle  the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that 
no  words  which  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest 
will  be  to  be  compared  with  those  which  are  the 
emanations  of  reality  and  truth."  (Preface  to  the  Lyr- 
ical Ballads.)  In  the  Appendix  on  "  Poetic  Diction" 
occurs  this  concluding  summary  of  ''  a  principle 
which  has  been  my  chief  guide  in  all  I  have  said, — 
namely,  that  in  works  of  imagination  and  sentiment,  for 
of  these  only  have  I  been  treating,  in  proportion  as 
ideas  and  feelings  are  valuable,  whether  the  compo- 
sition be  in  prose  or  verse,  they  require  and  exact  one 
and  the  same  language." 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  many  accounts  of  Words- 
worth's theory  of  the  language  of  poetry  his  cautious 
modifications  of  the  general  statement  that  it  does  not 
differ  from  that  of  prose  have  been  neglected.  It  is  to 
be  in  "'  a  selection  of  the  language  really  spoken  by 
men ;  "  the  painful  and  disgusting,  the  vulgar  and  the 
mean,  will  be  excluded ;  and  it  is  only  in  zvorks  of 
imagination  and  sentiment  that  prose  and  verse  style 
are  alike.  Due  consideration  of  these  matters  will 
perhaps  lead  us  to  question  whether  the  common  say- 
ing is  correct,  that  Wordsworth's  poetry  was  suc- 
cessful onlv  in  so  far  as  he  abandoned  his  theory. 

Coleridge's  reply  to  this  Preface,  and  his  critique  of 
the  poems  especially  concerned  with  it,  are  found  in 
chapters  xvii-xx  of  the  Biographia  Literaria,  the  last 
of  the  chapters  being  headed :  ''  Language  of  metrical 
composition,  why  and  wherein  essentially  different 
from  that  of  prose."  Perhaps  the  most  suggestive 
passages  are  these: 


STYLE. 


135 


"  Now  I  will  take  the  first  stanza  on  which  I  have 
chanced  to  open  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  simple  and  peculiar  in  its  language: 

*  In  distant  countries  I  have  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  roads,  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway,  I  met ; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came. 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet. 
Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad, 
And  in  his  arms  a  lamb  he  had.' 

The  words  here  are  doubtless  such  as  are  current  in 
all  ranks  of  life:  and  of  course  not  less  so  in  the 
hamlet  and  cottage,  than  in  the  shop,  manufactory, 
college,  or  palace.  But  is  this  the  order  in  which  the 
rustic  would  have  placed  the  words?  I  am  grievously 
deceived,  if  the  following  less  compact  mode  of  com- 
mencing the  same  tale  be  not  a  far  more  faithful  copy. 
*  I  have  been  in  many  parts  far  and  near,  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  ever  saw  before  a  man  crying  by  himself 
in  the  public  road :  a  grown  man  I  mean,  that  was 
neither  sick  nor  hurt,'  etc.,  etc.  But  when  I  turn  to  the 
following  stanza  in  The  Thorn  : 

'  At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 
This  wretched  woman  thither  goes, 
And  she  is  known  to  every  star 
And  every  wind  that  blows : 
And  there  beside  the  thorn  she  sits. 
When  the  blue  day-light's   in  the   skies : 
And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill. 
Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still ; 


136  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

Oh  misery  !     Oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me !     Oh  misery ! ' 

and  compare  this  with  the  language  of  ordinary  men, 
or  with  that  which  I  can  conceive  at  all  likely  to  pro- 
ceed, in  real  life,  from  such  a  narrator  as  is  supposed 
in  the  note  to  the  poem — compare  it  either  in  the 
succession  of  the  images  or  of  the  sentences — .  .  .  I 
reflect  with  delight  how  little  a  mere  theory,  though 
of  his  own  workmanship,  interferes  with  the  processes 
of  genuine  imagination  in  a  man  of  true  poetic  genius." 
"  Metre  in  itself  is  simply  a  stimulant  to  the  attention, 
and  therefore  excites  the  question,  Why  is  the  atten- 
tion to  be  thus  stimulated  ?  .  .  .  Neither  can  I  conceive 
any  other  answer  that  can  be  rationally  given,  short 
of  this :  I  write  in  metre,  because  I  am  about  to  use  a 
language  different  from  that  of  prose."  "  Now  poetry, 
Mr.  Wordsworth  truly  affirms,  does  alw^ays  imply 
passion :  which  word  must  be  here  understood,  in  its 
most  general  sense,  as  an  excited  state  of  the  feelings 
and  faculties.  And  as  every  passion  has  its  proper 
pulse,  so  will  it  likewise  have  its  characteristic  modes 
of  expression.  .  .  .  Lastly,  I  appeal  to  the  practice  of 
the  best  poets,  of  all  countries  and  in  all  ages,  as  au- 
thorizing the  opinion  (deduced  from  all  the  fore- 
going) that  in  every  import  of  the  word  essential, 
which  would  not  here  involve  a  mere  truism,  there 
may  be,  is,  and  ought  to  be,  an  essential  difference 
between  the  language  of  prose  and  of  metrical 
composition."* 

In  general,  criticism  has  accepted  this  as  the  final 
word  on  the  subject.     Of  late  Professor  Raleigh,  in 

*  In  the  last  of  the  four  chapters  (xx)  Coleridge  develops  his  view 
of  the  '*  neutral  style  "  or  lingua  comrminis. 


STYLE. 


137 


his  book  on  Wordsworth,  has  further  developed  the 
discussion,  pointing  out  that  the  defect  in  Wordsworth's 
theory  and  in  his  (occasional)  practice  was  due  to 
an  inadequate  appreciation  of  the  suggestive  or  connot- 
ative  power  of  language.  '*  Wordsworth's  devotion 
to  the  mere  fact,  his  fixed  and  jealous  gaze  on  truth, 
brought  him  into  difficulties  and  dangers  unlike  those 
which  beset  poets  who  indulge  the  imagination  with  a 
freer  course.  The  mere  fact  said  everything  to  him ; 
the  dates  on  a  tombstone  spoke  eloquently ;  and  a  par- 
ish register,  without  addition,  touched  the  spring  of 
sympathy  and  tears.  But  the  mere  fact,  which  says 
everything,  comes  perilously  near  also  to  saying  noth- 
ing. A  parish  register  is  not  in  itself  a  poem ;  and  the 
poet  who  aims  at  a  similar  economy  of  matter,  while  he 
avoids  all  the  flowery  enticements  that  allure  weaker 
feet,  is  likely  enough  to  fall  out  of  poetry  on  the  other 
side.  .  .  .  Wordsworth  found  that  language,  the  instru- 
ment of  poetry,  which  had  played  other  poets  false, 
was  not  true  to  him ;  that  words  were  deceitful, 
clumsy,  unmanageable,  and  tricky.  .  .  .  The  thing 
to  be  expressed,  even  at  its  simplest,  is  far  beyond  the 
limited  compass  of  the  instrument,  and,  save  by  par- 
tial indications,  can  no  more  be  interpreted  in  words 
than  a  symphony  can  be  rendered  upon  the  flute." 
''  His  reason  for  choosing  humble  and  rustic  life  as  his 
academy  of  language  was  thus,  like  the  rest  of  his 
theory  of  poetry,  purely  mystical.  He  knew  no  dia- 
lect, and  did  not  trouble  himself  to  acquire  one.  His 
strongest  motive  appears  clearly  in  the  short  sentence 
where  he  says  that  in  a  humble  condition  of  life  *  men 
hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which 
the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived.'  Cole- 
ridge made  short  work  of  this  philological  theory.  But 
its  interest  remains ;  for  it  shows  that  the  best  part 


138 


^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 


of  language,  to  Wordsworth's  mind,  was  to  be  found 
in  the  mere  names  of  natural  objects.  .  .  .  Another 
society,  which  uses  a  language  greater,  more  passion- 
ate, and  purer  than  the  language  of  the  shepherds  of 
the  Lakes,  was,  in  his  theory  at  least,  overlooked  by 
Wordsworth — the  society  of  poets,  living  and  dead. 
It  is  they  who  preserve  language  from  pollution  and 
enrich  it  with  new  powers.  They  redeem  words  from 
degradation  by  a  single  noble  employment.  They  es- 
tablish a  tradition  that  bridges  over  the  treacherous 
currents  and  quicksands  of  time  and  fashion.  And 
they  were  Wordsworth's  masters,  though  he  pays 
them  scant  acknowledgment."  {Wordsworth,  pp.  115- 
122.) 

With  this  much  clear,  then,  that  there  are  styles 
peculiarly   appropriate   to   poetry,   peculiarly   inap- 
propriate to  poetry,  and  neutral  in  re- 
sources of  the       ^       ^  ^  -^ 

qualities  of  spect  to  poetry  and  prose,  let  us  try 
poetical  style.  ^^  analyze  a  little  more  definitely  the 
qualities  of  characteristically  poetical  style.  All 
these  qualities  will  be  found  to  be,  not  conventional 
devices,  by  which  poets  have  agreed  to  decorate  the 
language  of  their  poems,  but  direct  results  of  the 
emotional  and  imaginative  elements  of  the  art. 

The  most  striking  quality  of  the  style  of  poetry  is 
its  concreteness.    Despite  the  fact  that  it  deals  with 

themes  of  universal  or  general  sig- 
Concreteness.       nificance,  it  avoids  general  or  abstract 

words.  Indeed  this  is  so  much  more 
than  a  mere  device  of  style, — is  so  much  a  part  of 
the  imaginative  presentation  of    the    material    of 


STYLE.  139 

poetry, — that  some  critics  include  it  as  essential 
to  the  very  definition  of  poetry.  Thus  Theodore 
Watts,  after  defining  poetry  as  "  the  concrete  and  ar- 
tistic expression  of  the  human  mind  in  emotional 
and  rhythmical  language,"  adds  this  comment : 
**  With  abstractions  the  poet  has  nothing  to  do,  save 
to  take  them  and  turn  them  into  concretions/'* 
And  Masson  defines  the  poetic  or  imaginative  faculty 
as  "  the  power  of  intellectually  producing  a  new  or 
artificial  concrete,"  and  poetry  itself  as  *'  cogitation 
in  the  language  of  concrete  circumstance."  The 
plastic  arts,  and  in  a  sense  the  art  of  music,  cannot 
by  their  very  nature  deal  with  the  abstract ;  poetry, 
made  up  of  words,  has  that  power,  and  most  readers 
would  probably  agree  that  sometimes  it  may  use  it 
wisely  and  well;  but  it  certainly  tends  always  to 
avoid  the  abstract  because  of  the  characteristically 
intellectual — as  contrasted  with  imaginative — char- 
acter of  that  type  of  speech.  The  chosen  word  of 
the  poet  is  first  of  all  the  word  which  will  recall  the 
most  vivid  image  to  the  imaginary  impressions  of 
the  senses  :t  he  will  prefer  ''daybreak"  to  "early 
morning,"  because  of  its  appeal  to  the  inner  eye,  or 

*  That  Mr.  Watts  exaggerates  this  aspect  may  perhaps  be  in- 
ferred from  the  example  which  he  quotes  from  George  Eliot, 
"  Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth  of  the  unspoken," 
objecting  to  the  phrase  "  the  unspoken  "  as  abstract  and  therefore 
prosaic. 

t  So  Grant  Allen  points  out,  in  his  Physiological  Esthetics,  that 
the  poets  show  a  preference  for  the  more  vivid  color-words,  such  as 
crimson,  azure,  and  the  like. 


140  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

perhaps  may  choose  ''  cock-crow,"  with  its  similar 
appeal  to  the  inner  ear.  Even  when  the  thought 
dealt  with  is  of  a  profoundly  intellectual  and  gen- 
eralized character,  as  in  this  passage  from  In 
Memoriam, — 

"  Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects   of   doubt,   and   taints   of  blood ; 

"  That   nothing   walks   with   aimless   feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

"  That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

"  Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring ;  " — 

in  such  a  passage,  then,  we  see  how  the  general- 
ization is  made  to  pass  before  us  in  a  series  of  con- 
crete images, — "  goal,"  "  taints  of  blood,"  "  aim- 
less feet,"  ''  rubbish,"  "  pile,"  ''  worm  cloven," 
"  moth  shrivelled,"  winter  changing  to  spring.  So 
true  is  this  that  when  poetry  forsakes  altogether 
the  concrete  image-making  style,  we  feel  instinc- 


STYLE. 


41 


tlvely  that  it  is  losing  its  vital  element  and  fading 
into  an   illegitimate  literary   form. 

This   concreteness,   this   detail,    we  may   further 
notice,  is  more  often  devoted  to  the  presentation  of 
beauty  than  to  any  other  element.     In 
poetry  the  writer  may  linger — as  was   ^o^cTeVdetaii 
noticed  in   an  earlier   paragraph — over 
beautiful  details,  may  heap  up  beautiful  words,  in  a 
manner  not  essential  to  his  main  purpose,  and  to  a 
degree  which  in  a  writer  of  prose  would  not  be 
tolerated.     When  we   read   such  a   stanza  as   this 
from  Keats' s  Ode  to  Psyche, — 

"  O  latest  born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy ! 
Fairer  than   Phoebe's  sapphire-rcgion'd  star, 

Or  \>spcr,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  hast  thou  none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming," — 

it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  anything  other  than  the 

sheer  love  of  beautiful  words  for  their  own  sake — 

that  is,  for  the  sake  of  the  beauty  of  the  images  they      .Ju^ 

awaken — will  account   for   the  progression   of  the     y^c^^iA^ 

style.    And  not  only  words  beautiful  because  of  the      '^^k^ 

images  for  which  they  stand,  but  words  beautiful 


142 


/IN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 


for  their  mere  sound, — these  also  are  favored  by  the 

poet,  as  will  be  further  set  forth  in  the  next  chapter. 

The  most   important  and   largest  aspect   of  the 

imaginative  concreteness  of  poetical  style  is  its  use 

of  what  is  called  figured  or  figurative 
FigTirative         language, — language    turned,   by   what 

are  also  called  tropes  or  *'''  turnings" 
from  its  literal  meaning  to  something  allied  to  that 
meaning  through  an  imaginative  process.*  The  fig- 
ures of  poetry  are  no  different  from  those  of  prose, 
and  the  study  of  them  in  detail  belongs  rather  to 
rhetoric  than  to  poetics;  it  is  sufficient  here  to  note 
how  their  characteristic  quality — considered  under 
their  principal  kinds — is  to  serve  the  power  of  the 
imagination  to  see  resemblances  where  the  reason 
does  not  find  them,  comparing  and  combining  images 
and  thus  bringing  out  their  real  character  and  their 
emotional  significance. 

The  simplest,  and  what  may  be  called  the  least 
poetical,  of  these  figures,  is  the  simile,  in  which  a 

resemblance  is  stated; — least  poetical, 
The  simile.        that  is,  as  contrasted  with  the  metaphor 

and  allied  figures,  in  which  the  resem- 
blance is  assumed  by  a  more  daring  and  intense 
imaginative  process.    That  great  series  of  similes  in 

*  Some  rhetoricians  distinguish  between  the  trope  and  the 
figure  ;  as,  for  example,  Professor  Gummere,  in  his  Handbook  of 
Poetics  :  "  Poetical  style  is  distinguished  from  ordinary  style  by  the 
use  (i)  of  a  different  kind,  and  (2)  of  a  different  arrangemetit  of 
words.  .  .  We  call  the  first,  which  refers  to  the  meaning,  Trope  \  we 
call  the  second,  which  refers  to  the  order,  Figured 


STYLE. 


143 


Shelley's  Skylark,  already  discussed  as  illustrating 
imaginative  processes,  is  sufificient  evidence  that  the 
simpler  figure  may  be  used  with  great  power.  Of 
the  fanciful  type  is  a  famous  simile  of  Suckling's : 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 
As  if  they  feared  the  light." 

{Ballad  upon  a  Wedding.) 

It  would  perhaps  not  be  rash  to  say  that  the  most 
majestic  simile  in  modern  poetry  is  that  in  Shelley's 
Adonais: 

"  Life,  like  a   dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity." 

Half-way  between  simile  and  metaphor  is  the  figure 
in  which  likeness  is  suggested  by  the  phrasing, 
though  not  stated  explicitly ;  as  in  Tennyson's 

"  Men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things," 

or  Shakspere's 

**  This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptered  isle. 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise. 
This  fortress  built  by  Nature  for  herself 
Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war, 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world. 


[44  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
This   blessed   plot,   this   earth,     this    realm,    this 
England." 

{Richard  11,  Act  ii,  sc.  i.) 


A  particular  type  is  the  epic  simile,  elaborated  in  a 
consciously  decorative  manner,  and  always — in 
modern  poetry — frankly  imitative  of  the  style  of 
the  Homeric  poems.  A  typical  example  is  this 
from  Milton: 

"  As  v^hen  a  scout, 
Through    dark   and    desert   ways   with   peril   gone 
All  night,  at  last  by  break  of  cheerful  dawn 
Obtains  the  brow  of  some  high-climbing  hill. 
Which   to  his   eye   discovers   unaware 
The  goodly  prospect  of  some  foreign  land 
First  seen,  or  some  renowned  metropolis 
With  glistening  spires  and  pinnacles  adorned, 
Which  now  the  rising  sun  gilds  with  his  beams; — 
Such  wonder  seized,  though  after  Heaven  seen, 
The  Spirit  malign,  but  much  more  envy  seized, 
At  sight  of  all  this  world  beheld  so  fair." 

{Paradise  Lost,  iii,  543  ff.) 

More  intensely  poetical,  as  has  been  observed, 
is  the  metaphor,  which  fuses  the  two  images  into  a 

new  identity,  allowing  no  time  to  the 
The  metaphor,      reason  for  inquiry  whether  to  identify 

them  is  just.  Three  striking  examples 
are  incorporated  in  one  stanza  of  Browning  s  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra: 


STYLE. 


145 


"  Thoughts  hardly   to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All  men  ignored  in  me, 
This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped." 

Tennyson's  Crossing  the  Bar,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  a  single  complex  metaphor  elaborated  almost  to 
the  point  of  allegory,  in  which  sailor,  voyage,  ocean, 
and  pilot  are  all  fused  imaginatively  with  the  ele- 
ments of  the  human  experience  for  which  they 
stand.  When  passion  is  intense,  or  utterance  hur- 
ried, different  metaphors  may  crowd  one  another 
even  to  the  point  of  contradiction,  as  in  the  familiar 
"  take  up  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles  "  of  Ham- 
let's soliloquy. 

The  other  types  of  figurative  language  which  are 
important  for  poetry  may  be  regarded  as  forms  of 
the  metaphor.  Chief  among  them  is 
personification,  in  which  a  lifeless  object  Personification, 
is  clothed  in  the  form  or  attributes  of 
a  living  person.  It  is  of  constant  occurrence  in 
fleeting  imagery,  as  w^hen  Milton  calls  the  ocean 
**  the  remorseless  deep,"  when  Shakspere  says: 

"  His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly," 

or  Lowell: 

"  Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us." 


146  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

In  other  cases  the  personification  forms  the  sub- 
stance of  a  whole  poem,  as  in  Gray's  Hymn  to 
Adversity  (''Daughter  of  Jove,")  Shelley's  Cloud 
("I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water,")  and 
Wordsworth's  Ode  to  Duty  (''  Stern  daughter  of 
the  voice  of  God  ").  Of  a  somewhat  different  type 
are  cases  where  the  personification  stands  not  so 
much  for  a  lifeless  object  as  for  an  entire  group 
or  class  of  persons,  as  in  Gray's 

"  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil," 

or  in  Collins's  Ode  to  Evening,  in  which  Fancy, 
Friendship,  Science  and  Health  appear  as  figures 
in  which  the  individuals  possessed  of  those  quali- 
ties are  merged.  Different,  again, — though  inci- 
dentally exemplified  in  the  poems  of  Gray  and 
Wordsworth  cited  above — is  the  personification  of 
an  abstract  quality  pure  and  simple,  as  in  the  lines — 

"  Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own." 

These  personifications  of  abstract  qualities  are  par- 
ticularly characteristic  of  eighteenth  century  poetry, 
and  in  it  they  often  represent  rather  a  conventional 
form  of  phrasing  than  a  genuine  metaphorical  im- 
age.    Thus,  in  the  Elegy,  such  lines  as 

"  Heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride," 


STYLE.  147 

"  Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage/' 

"  If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise," 

call  up  very  faint  images,  if  any,  and  might  stand 
for  purely  abstract  statements  if  the  nouns  in  ques- 
tion were  printed  without  capitals.  Of  quite  an- 
other sort  are  the  personifications  in  Collins's  Ode 
on  flic  Passions,  in  which  Fear,  Anger,  Despair, 
Hope,  and  the  rest,  appear  before  us  in  vivid  sym- 
bolic forms,  which  remind  us  of  the  mythologized 
abstractions,  like  the  Furies,  the  Graces,  and  the 
Muses,  of  classical  literature  and  art.  Equally  vivid 
is  the  personification  of  Autumn  in  Keats's  ode, — 
a  figure  seen 

"  Sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind." 

This  figure  of  personification,  w^hen  genuinely  im- 
aginative, takes  us  straight  to  the  heart  of  poetry, 
especially  that  of  primitive  times,  when  the  myth- 
making  faculty  was  always  busy  W'ith  the  objects  of 
nature  and  the  conceptions  of  the  mind,  and  formed 
living  images  so  like  those  of  the  real  world  that 
they  were  not  only  pictured,  but  feared,  honored, 
and  worshipped  in  turn. 

The    personification    elaborated    be- 
comes allegory,  in  w-hich  a  number  of  Allegory, 
these  personifications    form    the    char- 
acters in  epic  or  dramatic  story,  and  react  upon  each 


148  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

other  both  as  abstract  quaHties  and  as  symbolic 
figures.  This  form  of  art  is  especially  character- 
istic of  the  mediaeval  period,  when  there  was  a 
strange  fondness  for  the  mystical  presentation  of 
spiritual  truth  in  symbohc  material  form.  In  later 
times  the  fashion  has  disappeared  very  largely, 
modern  taste  being  little  disposed  to  enter  into  the 
intricate  structure  of  allegorical  composition,  and 
modern  criticism  holding  that  personification — like 
other  metaphors — is  a  figure  to  be  apprehended  in 
a  single  imaginative  flash,  rather  than  to  be  con- 
sciously elaborated.  It  is  characteristic,  then,  that 
our  great  allegorical  poems  are  of  early  periods; 
chief  among  them  being,  of  the  epic  type,  the  Piers 
Plozvrnan  of  the  fourteenth  century  and  Spenser's 
Faerie  Queene  of  the  sixteenth,  and,  of  the  dramatic 
type,  the  so-called  ''  moralities,"  notably  that  en- 
titled Every  Man.  The  poetic  allegory  may  also 
become  satirical,  as  in  Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achi- 
tophel,  or  it  may  be  of  the  expository  or  didactic 
type,  as  in  his  Hind  and  the  Panther. 

It  remains  to  notice  that  there  are  certain  forms 
of  figurative  phrasing  closely  allied  to  metaphor,  in 
which   one  object  is  expressed  by  the 
figurative  figure  of  another  because  it  has  a  par- 

forms,  ticular  associative  relation  to  the  latter. 

Typical  instances  are  the  passage  in  which  Milton 
speaks  of  a  table  on  which  "  all  Autumn  "  is  piled 
— '*  all  Autumn  "  meaning  all  the  fruits  of  Autumn, 
— and  that  in  which  Shakspere  speaks  of  bringing 


STYLE.  149 

"  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave."*  These  figures, 
unless  unusually  bold,  are  so  slight  in  their  im- 
age-making quality  as  to  attract  little  attention, 
and  are  scarcely  more  characteristic  of  poetry 
than  of  prose."  The  same  is  true  of  other  so- 
called  figures,  which  are  not  based  on  imagin- 
ative imagery  at  all, — such  as  irony,  antithesis, 
aposiopesis,  etc.  The  figure  of  apostrophe,  in  which 
an  object  is  directly  addressed,  is  a  form  of  personi- 
fication when  it  has  any  imaginative  significance  at 
all. 

A  good  account  of  figures  of  speech  can  be  found  in 
any  standard  work  on  rhetoric.  For  a  convenient  brief 
analysis  of  their  kinds  as  related  to  poetry,  see  Gayley's 
Introduction  to  The  Principles  of  Poetry,  pp.  xliii-xlix. 
Professor  Gayley  divides  figures  into  (i)  those  which 
are  poetical  in  the  sense  of  representing  a  created 
image,  (2)  figures  of  logical  artifice  which  appeal  to 
the  reason  rather  than  the  imagination,  and  (3)  rhetor- 
ical figures  which  have  to  do  with  the  ordering  of 
words.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that,  whereas  formerly 
the  metaphor  was  often  treated  as  an  abbreviated  simile, 
it  is  now  recognized  as  being  the  most  primitive 
and  purely  natural  of  figures,  connected  with  the 
myth-making  faculty  to  which  allusion  has  already 
been  made.  This  indirect  method  of  phrasing  is  con- 
stant, too,  in  the  descriptive  style  of  old  English 
poetry, — as   in   the   "  kennings  "   or   epithets   conven- 

*  To  these  figures  the  terms  synecdoche  and  metonymy  dire  technic- 
ally applied  :  the  former,  when  the  relation  of  the  two  objects  is 
that  of  a  whole  and  a  part,  the  latter  when  it  is  more  indirectly 
associative. 


ISO 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


tionalized  from  metaphorical  associations :  '*  whale's 
bath  "  or  "  swan-road  "  for  the  sea,  "  battle-serpents  " 
for  arrows,  "  battle-gleam  "  for  sword,  etc. 

The  imaginative  process,  which  finds  Its  expres- 
sion in  this  concreteness  of  the  poetical  style,  is  in 
Choice  of  words  g^od  part  the  result  of  the  emotional  ap- 
for  emotional  peal  which  wc  havc  seen  to  be  character- 
istic  of  the  method  of  poetry.  In  an- 
other way  this  emotional  element  acts  upon  style: 
namely,  by  viewing  words  not  only  as  means  of  pre- 
senting ideas  or  images,  but  as  means  of  arousing 
feeling  through  association.  This  is  of  course  not 
strictly  a  distinct  matter  from  the  other,  for  it  must 
be  by  the  images  or  ideas  associated  with  them  that 
words  will  arouse  feeling;  but  when  they  do  this  by 
automatic  and  infinitely  rapid  associations,  we  may 
think  of  it  as  a  matter  by  itself.  All  style,  prosaic  as 
well  as  poetic,  involves  a  consideration  of  the  fact 
that  words  do  these  two  different  things :  they  con- 
vey meanings,  and  they  convey  suggestions.  The 
distinction  is  sometimes  lexpressed  by  the  statement 
that  they  have  both  "  denotative  "  and  "  connotat- " 
ive "  values.  While  the  prose  writer  makes  fre- 
quent use  of  the  connotative  values  of  words — their 
power  of  suggesting  emotional  relations — he  has 
done  his  chief  duty  if  he  has  chosen  such  words  as 
mean  exactly  what  he  has  to  say;  that  is,  words 
properly  denotative  of  his  ideas.  But  the  poet,  also 
dependent  upon  the  denotative  values  of  his  words, 


STYLE. 


151 


accomplishes  his  peculiar  task  in  large  part  by  choos- 
ing" them  for  their  connotative  values, — their  ca- 
pacit}^  to  suggest  the  emotion  to  which  he  wishes 
to  appeal.  The  defective  style  of  certain  passages 
quoted  on  an  earlier  page,  characteristically  un- 
poetical  although  appearing  in  poetry,  appears  to  Ije 
due  to  a  neglect  of  this  connotative  element.  De- 
scribing the  grave  of  a  child,  Wordsworth  wished  to 
give  an  impression  of  its  pathetically  small  size,  and 
used  the  words : 

"  I've    measured    it    from    side    to   side, 
'Tis  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide." 

The  picture  presented  to  the  mind's  eye,  and  the 
denotative  description  of  the  grave,  are  precisely 
what  he  wished  them  to  be;  but  unfortunately  the 
words  had  a  suggestive  power  which  he  could  not 
escape, — their  accuracy  of  measurement  suggested 
an  unemotional  aspect  of  size,  "  described,''  to  use 
Professor  Dowden's  words,  ''  as  if  it  had  been  stud- 
ied by  an  undertaker."  Hence,  when  this  had  been 
pointed  out  by  Coleridge  and  others,  the  poet  felt 
obliged  to  destroy  something  of  the  exactness  of 
the  image,  that  its  emotional  value  might  be  saved, 
and  made  the  change  to  the  words — "  though  but 
of  compass  small."  Equally  instructive  is  the  change 
made  in  the  revised  version  of  The  Blind  Highland 
Boy;  in  the  first  version  the  boy  had  embarked  on 
his  strange  voyage  in 


152 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

A  household  tub,  like  one  of  those 
Which  women  use  to  wash  their  clothes." 


There  was  more  trouble  here  than  a  bad  rime;  the 
household  tub  was  too  suggestive  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  was  changed,  on  Coleridge's  sugges- 
tion, to  a  turtle-shell.*  On  the  other  hand,  con- 
sider the  emotional  suggestiveness  of  such  a  phrase 
as  that  by  which  Jonson  describes  the  lily, — "  the 
plant  and  flower  of  light,"  which  can  hardly  be  said 
to  present  any  definite  image,  but  has  a  vivid  and  in- 
valuable associative  power;  or  of  the  sudden  out- 
burst of  a  familiar  word  of  vituperation  in  the 
lament  of  Tennyson's  CEnone  : 

*'  I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruined  folds,  .  .  . 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her — 
The  Abominable ! " 

— or  of  a  word  of  repulsive  association  in  connec- 
tion with  one  giving  a  reverential,  intensifying  sanc- 
tion to  its  use,  in  this  line  from  The  Ancient 
Mariner: 

"The  very  deep   did   rot:   O   Christ!" 

In  all  these  cases  it  is  not  the  image  aroused,  for 
that  is  vague  at  best,  but  the  marvelous  associative 

*  See  Dowden's  Introduction  to  Wordsworth's  Poems,  Athenaeum 
Press  ed.,  p.  xciii. 


STYLE. 


153 


power  of  words  to  awaken  the  appropriate  emotion, 
which  produces  the  poet's  desired  effect. 

A  particular  and  common  instance  of  this  poeti- 
cal use  of  words  emotionally  suggestive  is  the  choice 
of    antiquated    diction,    including    such 
simple  examples  as  the  use  of  the  ob-  Antiquated 

diction. 

solete  second  person  smgular,  and  such 
elaborate  ones  as  the  revived  ballad  style  of  The 
Ancient  Mariner.  That  which  is  old  has  an  emo- 
tional value,  quite  apart  from  anything  else  about 
it;  and  in  English  usage  there  is  another  circum- 
stance giving  a  peculiar  value  to  diction  of  the 
sixteenth  century, — namely,  that  the  standard  ver- 
sion of  the  Bible  is  constantly  read  in  that  diction, 
as  well  as  imitated  in  prayers  and  hymns ;  hence 
its  power  of  associating  reverential  emotion  is 
greatly  intensified. 

In  conclusion,  then,  we  find  that  all  these  qualities 
of  poetical  style  appear  to  be,  as  was  predicted  at  the 
outset,  direct  results  of  the  imaginative  and  emo- 
tional elements  of  poetry.  Witli  these  in  view,  the 
poet  reaches  out  for  words  which  he  would  not 
otherwise  use,  rejects  words  which  he  would 
otherwise  use,  and  uses  still  other  words  in  trans- 
figured meanings  or  in  relations  which  give  them 
new  and  almost  limitless  powers. 

Before    leaving    the    subject,     we     should    per- 
haps   notice    that    the    style    of    poetry 
is  not   infrequently  marked   by  irregu- 
larities   which    together    go    under    the    name    of 


154  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

"  poetic  license," — implying  a  certain  freedom  of 
conduct  allowed  to  poets  in  vocabulary  and  phras- 
ing, to  compensate  them  for  the  exact  require- 
ments of  rhythmical  form.  The  most  common 
of  such  licenses  are  the  inversion  of  the  natural 
order  of  words  and  the  admission  of  the  auxiliary 
verb  **  do  "  or  ''  did  "  as  a  mere  expletive  to  fill  out 
the  rhythm.     Both  are  illustrated  in  the  line — 

"And   they   all   dead   did  lie," 

from  The  Ancient  Mariner.  Other  licenses  in- 
clude the  forcing  of  rimes,  or  the  use  of  antiquated 
or  unusual  forms  of  words  for  the  sake  of  rime  or 
rhythm.  But  all  these  licenses  are  admitted  spar- 
ingly in  modern  poetry,  and  are  to  be  reckoned  as 
blemishes  unless — as  is  not  infrequently  the  case — 
the  change  from  the  normal  choice  of  words  or 
order  of  words  has  a  certain  stylistic  value  of  its 
own. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BASIS  OF  POETRY    (EXTERNAL), 

We  saw  at  the  outset  that  poetry  is  characterized 
by  two  elements,  one  having  to  do  with  its  imagina- 
ive  nature,  the  other  with  its  metrical  form.  The 
former  was  considered  in  the  preceding  chapter; 
the  latter  is  now  to  be  examined,  so  far  as  concerns 
the  fundamental  character  of  rhythm  as  applied 
to  human  speech,  and  tlie  reasons  why  it  is  an 
essential  element  of  poetry. 

Rhythm  is  a  characteristic  of  movement  in  time, 
and  hence  of  all  the  arts  which  are  expressed  in 
time  rather  than  in  space, — dancing  Bhythm 
music,  and  poetry.  Some  writers  speak  defined, 
of  rhythm  as  also  characteristic  of  the  arts  of 
space,  using  the  term  of  such  regularly  recurrent 
elements  as  the  pillars  of  a  colonnade;  but  this  is 
really  to  speak  figuratively.  There  is  a  certain 
resemblance  between  the  pleasure  derived  from 
regularity  of  space  relations  and  that  derived  from 
regularity  of  time  relations,  but  the  two  kinds  of 
pleasure  appeal  to  wholly  different  senses,  and  the 
elements  of  time  which  go  to  make  up  rhythm 
appeal  primarily  to  the  ear.  We  should,  therefore, 
as  has  been  said  in  an  earlier  chapter,  think  of  verse 

155 


156  ^J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

as  consisting  of  sounds  rhythmically  arranged,  and 
of  the  words  printed  on  the  page  as  mere  symbols  of 
those  sounds. 

To  go  further  toward  a  definition,  rhythm  occurs 
when  sounds  are  divided  into  equal  intervals  of 
time  and  when  these  intervals  are  marked  by 
stresses.*  As  soon  as  a  group  of  sounds  marked 
by  these  conditions  is  heard,  the  ear  sets  up  a 
standard  of  rhythm  of  the  character  indicated — 
that  is,  with  time  divisions  of  that  particular  length 
— and  attempts  to  refer  to  it  all  succeeding  sounds, 
until  the  rhythm  is  broken  off  so  completely  as  to  be 
lost.  More  than  this,  so  eager  is  the  ear  to  enjoy 
the  sensation  of  rhythm,  that  it  imagines  the  neces- 
sary elements  even  where  they  are  not  actually 
present.  Thus  if  we  hear  a  steam  piston  driving 
regular  strokes  outside  our  window,  we  are  likely  to 
imagine  a  difference  in  the  stress  of  those  strokes, 
so  as  to  arrange  them  in  rhythmical  groups,  or 
perhaps  to  imagine  other  silent  beats  coming  be- 
tween  them,  thus  forming  rhythmical  groups  of  a 
different  character.  And  the  strokes  of  the  clock, 
even  when  really  all  alike,  we  imagine  to  alter- 
nate between  a  "  tick  "  and  a  *'  tock," — that  is, 
between  a  stronger  and  a  lighter  stress, — thus  form- 
ing (again)  rhythmical  groups  which  satisfy  the 
inner  ear  better  than  the  mere  repetition  of  identi- 
cal stresses.     In   such  ways   as  these  we   seek   to 

*0n  the  meaning  of  the  term  "stress,"  see  p.  i6^n.  below. 


RHYTHM.  157 

impose  rhythmical  order  upon  the  disordered  sounds 
of  the  world. 

It  is  important  to  notice  that  two  elements  are 
equally  necessary  to  the  forming  of  rhythm:  the 
equal    time-intervals,    and    the    stresses  „^  ^ 

-  ^  ,  The  two 

which  mark  them.  A  succession  of  elements  of 
sounds  alternating  between  stress  and  no  ^  ^*  °^' 
stress  or  between  strong  and  weak  stress,  but  not  at 
regular  intervals  of  time,  does  not  impress  the  ear  as 
rhythmical ;  and  a  succession  of  sounds  occurring  at 
equal  time-intervals,  but  all  of  the  same  stress,  does 
not  seem  rhythmical  (unless,  as  in  this  latter  case  we 
have  seen  will  probably  be  true,  the  ear  imagines  dif- 
ference of  stress  where  none  really  exists).  Wher- 
ever rhythm  is  present,  these  two  elements  must 
occur.*  It  is  true,  however,  that  there  is  a  differ- 
ence in  their  conspicuousness.  In  the  rhythm  of 
dancing  both  time-intervals  and  stresses  are  strongly 
emphasized  and  universally  felt.  In  the  rhythm 
of  music  the  time-intervals  are  more  strongly 
felt  than  the  presence  of  the  stresses  which  mark 
them,  and  poor  players  and  singers  often  neglect 
these  stresses,  because  they  are  not  expressly  indi- 
cated in  the  printed  musical  text.  In  the  rhythm  of 
verse,  on  the  other  hand,  the  stresses  are  more 
strongly  felt  by  many  persons  than  the  time-inter- 
vals which  they  mark,  because  these  stresses  are  so 

*  This  has  been  proved  experimentally  in  psychological  labora- 
tories. See  an  account  by  T.  L.  Bolton,  in  the  Anier.  Journal  of 
Psychology,  vol.  vi,  p.  145. 


158 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


largely  the  stresses  of  ordinary  speech;  and  poor 
readers  often  neglect  the  equal  time-intervals,  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  in  the  text  of  the  verse 
expressly  indicating  them.  This  difference  has  re- 
sulted in  the  familiar  careless  statement  that  the 
rhythm  of  verse  depends  only  on  stress  or  accent. 
Sidney  Lanier,  a  musician  and  poet  v^ho  tried  to 
show  how  the  laws  of  musical  rhythm  apply  to 
English  verse,  went  clear  to  the  other  extreme,  and 
declared  that  equal  time-intervals  are  the  only  neces- 
sary element  in  rhythm.*  Both  statements  are 
wrong,  since,  as  we  have  seen,  both  elements 
are  necessary.  But  it  is  quite  true  that  music 
varies  its  regular  stresses  more  freely  than  verse, 
and  that  verse  varies  its  regular  time-intervals  more 
freely  than  music. 

In  the  rhythm  of  music  the  problem  of  the  com- 
poser, the  player  or  the  singer  is  comparatively 
„  .  ,     ,        simple.     The  sounds  which  are  the  ma- 

MuBical  and  ^  ,  ,         . 

verse  rhythm  terials  of  his  art,  no  matter  by  what  m- 
compared.  strument   they   are   produced,    he   may 

make  as  long  or  as  short  as  he  wishes,  and  may 
stress  them  to  whatever  extent  he  pleases,  without 
any  limitation  except  that  of  the  form  which  he 
wishes  to  give  them.  Musical  rhythm,  therefore, 
is  limited  only  by  the  capacity  of  the  human  ear  to 
perceive  and  to  enjoy  rhythmical  forms  of  sound. 
But  with  the  rhythm  of  verse  it  is  quite  different. 
Verse  is  made  up  of  sounds  which  are  already  fixed, 

*  Science  of  English  Verse,  p.  65. 


RHYTHM.  159 

to  some  extent,  both  as  to  their  length  and  their 
stress,  by  the  fact  that  they  are  used  in  famiHar 
speech.  The  poet  cannot  use  other  sounds  than  those 
found  in  the  words  of  ordinary  intercourse,  and  he 
cannot  alter  them,  or  provide  for  any  widely  differ- 
ent pronunciation,  merely  because  he  wishes  to  ar- 
range them  in  verse.  From  the  rhythmical  stand- 
point, therefore,  the  art  of  the  poet  is  much  more 
difficult  and  intricate  than  that  of  the  musican;  so 
also  is  the  art  of  the  reader  of  poetry,  who — unlike 
the  performer  of  music — has  no  clear  guide  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  verse  in  its  printed  text,  but  must 
read  the  words  of  which  it  is  composed  as  zvords 
and  sentences,  yet  at  the  same  time  read  them  as 
rhythmical  sound. 

This  aspect  of  verse  rhythm  may  be  illustrated 
in  this  way.  The  rhythm  of  the  artist  may  be  con- 
ceived as  a  chain  of  innumerable  equal  links,  which 
moves  past  him  at  a  fixed  rate  of  speed,  yet  whose 
speed  is  under  his  control  so  that  he  may  either 
hurry  or  retard  it.  Into  this  chain  of  rhythmical 
units  the  musician,  wishing  to  fit  a  series  of  sounds, 
may  always  put  a  sound,  or  a  group  of  sounds, 
precisely  of  the  right  size  and  character  to  fit  the 
several  links,  without  hindrance  or  limitation  of  any 
kind.  If  a  long  sound  is  needed,  he  will  take  what- 
ever sound  he  wishes  and  lengthen  it  to  fit  its  link; 
if  a  stressed  sound  is  needed,  he  will  take  what 
sound  he  pleases  and  stress  it  as  the  chain  of  rhythm 
may  suggest.     But  the  poet,  wishing  also  to  fit  a 


l6o  ^>^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

series  of  sounds  to  the  steadily  moving  chain,  has 
only  a  given  number  of  sounds  from  which  he  may 
choose ;  and  when  he  has  chosen  one  of  these  sounds 
because  it  pleases  him  as  a  means  of  expressing  his 
ideas  or  feelings,  he  finds  that  it  already  has  a  cer- 
tain length  and  a  certain  stress  which  naturally  be- 
long to  it,  and  that  these  may  perhaps  not  at  all 
fit  the  link  for  which  it  is  needed.  Within  certain 
limits,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  he  may  indeed  vary 
the  natural  sounds  of  speech,  or  may  find  them  al- 
ready variable,  for  his  purpose ;  but  these  limits  are 
clearly  drawn  and  may  not  be  disregarded.  Like  the 
musician,  too,  he  may  occasionally  alter  the  speed 
at  which  the  chain  moves  past,  in  order  better  to 
serve  his  purpose,  but  not  so  much  as  to  seem  to 
break  the  steadily  onward  movement  of  its  rhytHm. 
The  question  now  arises  whether  human  speech, 
with  its  time  divisions  and  stresses  already  partly 
determined  by  quite  other  than  rhyth- 
in  human  mical    considerations,    falls    easily    into 

speech.  rhythm,     and     in     particular     whether 

rhythm  is  found  in  prose  as  well  as  verse.  Both 
these  questions  may  be  answered  in  the  affirmative. 
It  would  be  strange,  seeing  that  the  human  ear  is  so 
fond  of  rhythm  that  it  imagines  it  even  where  the 
necessary  constituents  are  not  present,  if  our  speech 
did  not  often  tend  to  be  rhythmical  without  any  at- 
tempt to  organize  it  to  that  end.  Such  a  simple  and 
commonplace  sentence  as  the  one  set  down  a  moment 
ago,  ''  Both  these  questions  may  be  answered  in 


RHYTHM.  l6l 

the  affirmative,"  is  at  least  approximately  rhythmi- 
cal, the  stresses  on  the  syllables  both,  qucs-,  an-, 
and  Urm-,  ocurring  at  fairly  equal  time-intervals. 
Persons  of  sensitive  ear  will  often  find  themselves 
altering  the  or.der  of  words  in  a  sentence  from  that 
which  they  first  hit  upon  in  writing  it,  not  because- 
it  does  not  adequately  express  their  meaning  in 
that  form,  but  because  on  reading  it  aloud  the 
cadence  is  not  as  rhythmical  as  they  can  make  it  by  a 
slight  change.  And  in  literary  prose,  especially 
when  it  rises  to  express  great  dignity  or  strong  emo- 
tion, rhythm  is  still  more  noticeable.  Large  parts 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer  (notably  "  Thy  kingdom  come, 
thy  will  be  done,  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven  ")  fall 
into  a  natural  and  beautifully  perfect  rhythm.  Pro- 
fessor Lewis,  in  The  Principles  of  English  Verse, 
quotes  this  sentence  from  the  Book  of  Genesis  as 
one  which  he  would  read  in  rhythmical  form,  ac- 
cording to  time-intervals  indicated  by  the  italicized 
stresses :  "  And  God  sazv  that  the  u'/c/eedness  of 
man  was  great  in  the  earth,  and  that  cz-ery  imag- 
ination of  the  thoughts  of  his  heart  was  only  ^vil 
continually."  Others  would  no  doubt  read  the 
sentence  differently,  but  still  with  an  unconscious 
effort  to  make  the  time-intervals  between  the  stresses 
approximately  equal. 

What,  then,  is  the  difference  between  the  rhythm 
of  prose  and  that  of  verse?  and  why  is  it,  if  prose 
is  so  often  rhythmical,  that  it  is  considered  a  fault 


1 62  ^^  l^  TRODUC  TION  TO  POE  TR  Y. 

if  its  rhythm  reaches  the  point  where  it  can  be  called 
not  only  rhythm  but  metre f  The  most 
prose  and  verse  obvious  difference  is  that  in  prose  no 
IS  inguis  e  .  continuous  chain  or  stream  of  rhythm  is 
found  persisting  for  any  long  period.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  say,  in  speaking  of  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
that  parts  of  it  are  rhythmical;  perhaps,  indeed,  all 
its  parts  may  be  regarded  as  rhythmical,  but  not 
according  to  any  single  rhythmical  movement. 
We  no  sooner  detect  the  rhythm  in  a  prose  pas- 
sage, after  beginning  to  analyze  it,  than  it  breaks 
ofY  and  new  rhythmical  cadences  appear;  and  if  the 
same  rhythm  goes  on  for  too  long  a  time,  we  feel 
that  we  are  crossing  the  line  into  verse.  Such  an 
instance  is  this  from  Dickens: 

"  When  Death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young, 
for  every  fragile  form  from  which  he  lets  the  panting 
spirit  free,  a  hundred  virtues  rise,  in  shapes  of  mercy, 
charity,  and  love,  to  walk  the  world,  and  bless  it.  !  Of 
every  tear  that  sorrowing  mortals  shed  on  such  green 
graves,  some  good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes." 
{Old  Curiosity  Shop,  chap.  Ixxii.) 

A  second  characteristic  of  metre,  as  distinguished 
from  rhythm,  and  impHed  in  its  name,  is  that  its 
rhythm  is  not  only  formed  by  the  usual  brief  equal 
time-intervals,  but  that  these  are  grouped  into 
larger  equal  units  forming  verses.  In  prose  rhythm 
there  are  rhythmical  groupings  or  periods,  but  they 
are  not  repeated  in  parallel  types.     In  the  passage 


RHYTHM.  163 

just  quoted  from  Dickens,  however,  such  groups 
as  "  in  shapes  of  mercy,  charity,  and  love,"  and 
**  some  good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes," 
suggest  a  regularity  appropriate  to  verse. 

Yet  once  more,  the  rhythmical  units  of  prose  may 
be  distinguished  from  those  of  verse  in  being  found 
to  consist  of  very  irregular  numbers  of  syllables. 
Thus  in  the  passage  quoted  above  from  the  book 
of  Genesis,  the  number  of  syllables  in  the  several 
time-intervals  whose  close  is  marked  by  the  ital- 
icized stress  runs  something  like  this :  two,  one, 
three,  four,  two,  three,  three,  five,  four,  three,  tw^o, 
two,  three.  Where  there  are  four  or  five  syllables, 
they  are  hurried  over  so  as  to  be  pronounced  in  a 
period  of  time  approximately  equal  to  that  taken,  in 
other  cases,  by  one,  two,  or  three.  In  this  respect 
the  rhythm  of  prose  more  closely  resembles  that  of 
music  than  that  of  verse;  for  in  music  it  is  very 
common  to  find  the  number  of  separate  sounds 
within  the  equal  measures  varying  in  number  and 
length.  The  same  thing  may  be  true  of  verse,  as 
we  shall  see  a  little  later;  so  that  it  is  erroneous  to 
say,  as  some  have  done,  that  the  one  distinction  be- 
tween prose  and  verse  rhythm  is  that  the  latter  is 
measured  into  groups  of  a  fixed  number  of  syllables. 
Nevertheless  it  is  true  that  in  modern  English  verse 
the  time-intervals  are  usually  formed  either  by  the 
regular  alternation  of  stressed  and  unstressed  sylla- 
bles, or  by  the  alternation  of  one  stressed  and  two 
unstressed  syllables, — the  number  of  syllables  in  the 


1 64  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

rhythmical  unit  being  therefore  usually  limited  to 
two  or  three,  and  the  number  in  the  larger  verse- 
unit  to  a  multiple  of  two  or  three,  varying  com- 
monly from  six  to  eighteen  or  thereabouts.  This 
gives  the  metre  of  verse  a  regularity  of  movement 
greater  than  that  of  the  usual  rhythms  of  music 
and  prose. 

Metre  or  verse,  then,  is  formed  of  rhythmical 
groups  of  syllables,  divided  (as  in  all  rhythm)  by 
stresses  into  equal  time-intervals,  and  also  divided 
into  regular  larger  groups  which,  persistently  re- 
peated, carry  on  a  fixed  rhythm  throughout  the 
composition  which  they  form.  In  prose,  rhythm 
may  be  said  to  be  snatched  up,  from  time  to  time, 
as  an  accessory  adornment  of  speech;  in  verse, 
rhythm  absorbs  all  speech,  bears  it  up  and  carries 
it  on  in  a  continuous  movement  to  a  perfectly 
ordered  end.* 

It  is  now  time  to  inquire  more  in  detail  how  the 
sounds  of  ordinarv  En^Hsh  speech  are 

The  relation  of  ,        .  ,  '  i,  -r-    •    n 

speech  stresses  to  fitted.  Cither  naturally  or  artificially,  to 
verse  rhythm.  ^^^  regular  strcsscs  and  time-intervals 
of  verse  rhythm.     And  first  as  to  stresses  or  ac- 


*  In  a  paper  on  "The  Scansion  of  Prose  Rhythm,"  in  the  Publi- 
catiojis  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  vol.  xx,  p.  707,  Pro- 
fessor F.  N.  Scott  distinguishes  the  "  rhythm  "  of  prose  from  that 
of  verse  as  being  based  on  changes  of  pitch  rather  than  of  stress. 
Interesting  as  his  discussion  is,  the  phenomena  with  which  it  is  con- 
cerned are  of  so  completely  different  a  character  from  those  under 
consideration  here,  that  one  doubts  the  propriety  of  using  the  same 
word,  rhythm,  to  describe  them. 


JCCENT. 


I6S 


cents.*  These  are  conspicuous  elements  in  the 
natural  sounds  of  the  language,  and  are  formed 
primarily  simply  by  the  louder  utterance  of  cer- 
tain syllables  (though  they  may  be  characterized 
incidentally  by  other  changes,  such  as  difference 
of  pitch).  In  general  a  syllable  is  stressed  for  one 
of  two  reasons :  because  it  is  the  root-syllable  of  a 
word,  or  because  it  occupies  an  important  place 
in  a  sentence.  These  two  reasons  will  very  com- 
monly work  together,  syllables  being  stressed  for 
both  reasons  at  once,  or  left  unstressed  because 
neither  applies.  But  they  may  conflict.  Thus  a 
root-syllable  may  be  very  slightly  stressed  if  the 
word  in  which  it  stands  is  of  little  grammatical  or 
rhetorical  importance;  as,  for  example,  the  first 
syllable  of  oz'cr,  in  the  sentence  "  He  jumped  over 
the  fence,"   compared   with   the  sentence,   "  I   said 

*  In  this  book  the  terms  "accent"  and  "stress"  are  used  as 
synonymous,  and  as  having  primary  reference  to  the  force  or  loud- 
ness of  the  sound  in  question.  Either  term  may  be  used  more 
generally ;  as,  for  example,  by  Mr.  Omond,  when  he  remarks  that 
"  anything  which  gives  importance  to  a  syllable  maybe  said  to  lay 
stress  on  it."  And  again  :  "  '  Accent  '  with  us  does  not  necessarily 
imply  either  elevation  of  pitch,  or  increase  of  loudness,  or  prolonga- 
tion of  time.  Normally  we  like  to  unite  all  three  on  one  syllable, 
and  this  is  probably  our  commonest  type  of  accent.  But  .  .  . 
any  device  which  thus  distinguishes  a  syllable  from  its  fellows  makes 
it  conspicuous,  and  this  conspicuousness  is  what  we  really  mean  by 
'accent.'"  [English  Metrists,  pp.  5,  4.)  In  theory,  this  is  true; 
actually,  however,  for  the  modern  Germanic  languages,  English  in- 
cluded, an  accented  syllable  is  one  uttered  with  more  force  or  loud- 
ness than  its  neighbors  (in  French  the  same  statement  will  not  cer- 
tainly hold).  With  this  force  there  7)iay  be  associated  a  change 
of  pitch  or  a  change  of  duration,  but  neither  necessarily. 


1 66  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

over,  not  under."  On  the  other  hand,  a  syllable 
bearing  no  etymological  accent  (that  is,  accent  due 
to  its  being  the  root  syllable)  will  very  rarely  be 
stressed  for  rhetorical  reasons;  and  while  we  can 
easily  pronounce  *'  over  "  in  a  sentence  with  little 
or  no  stress  on  the  first  syllable,  we  cannot  pro- 
nounce the  second  syllable  with  any  stress  at  all. 
Monosyllables  are  commonly  stressed  or  left  un- 
stressed according  to  the  second  principle  alone — 
their  grammatical  or  rhetorical  importance.  Many 
words,  especially  compounds  in  which  each  member 
is  strictly  entitled  to  an  etymological  accent  (like 
new-found) y  may  divide  the  stress  almost  equally 
between  two  syllables,  or  shift  it  to  either  accord- 
ing to  the  preference  of  the  speaker.  The  numerals 
in  "  -teen  "  are  of  this  class,  being  usually  stressed 
on  the  last  syllable  at  the  end  of  a  clause,  other- 
wise on  the  first. 

Thus  far  it  has  been  implied  that  there  are  but 

two  kinds  of  syllables,  considered  with  reference  to 

accent :    stressed   and   unstressed.      But 

Degrees  of  ^j^jg  jg  q£  coursc  uot  the  casc.     Thcorct- 

syllabic  accent. 

ically  there  may  be  an  almost  infinite 
number  of  degrees  of  stress,  as  the  intensity  of 
utterance  is  increased  or  diminished.  Practically 
we  think  of  syllables  as  falling  into  three  classes : 
( I )  those  not  stressed,  or  stressed  so  slightly  by 
comparison  with  their  neighbors  as  to  seem  un- 
stressed; (2)  those  fully  stressed;  and  (3)  those 
half  stressed  or  bearing  what  is  commonly  called 


ACCENT,  167 

a  secondary  accent.  Thus  in  many  words  of  three 
syllables,  and  in  nearly  all  of  four  syllables  and 
more,  two  are  stressed — one  fully,  the  other  second- 
arily. Examples  are  the  third  syllable  of  circum- 
stance, the  third  of  ordinary,  the  second  of  imagina- 
tion, the  fifth  (perhaps  also  the  first)  of  unpremed- 
itated, the  second  of  infclligibility.  These  secondary 
stresses  exist  on  a  principle  akin  to  the  etymological, 
— the  hereditary  tendencies  of  the  language  or  the 
history  of  the  particular  word.  But  in  the  case  of 
compound  words  and  of  monosyllables  a  secondary 
stress  may  be  due  to  the  second  principle, — the 
grammatical  or  rhetorical  importance  of  the  syllable 
in  question. 

When  we  come  to  fit  these  syllables  to  a  metrical 
scheme,  whose  rhythm  requires  stresses  at  equal  in- 
tervals, it  is  evident  that  certain  groups  Alterations  of 
of  words  (as  we  have  seen  is  the  case  stress  to  fit 

.the  metrical 

even    m    prose)    will    conform    readily   scheme. 
to  the  metrical  scheme,  dividing  themselves  natur- 
ally into  stressed  and  non-stressed  syllables,  whether 
for  etymological,  grammatical  or  rhetorical  reasons. 
Thus  in  the  verse 

"  The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell " 

there  is  a  regular  alternation  of  stressed  and  un- 
stressed syllables,  which  would  occur  in  the  case 
of  the  same  sentence  in  prose,  and  which  naturally 
conforms  to  the  particular  kind  of  metre  here  rep- 


l68  ^J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

resented.  The  accents  on  the  first  syllables  of 
certain  and  secret  are  due  to  etymology  and  could 
not  be  wholly  dispensed  with ;  thing,  had,  and 
tell,  being  monosyllables,  could  theoretically  be 
stressed  or  unstressed,  but  thing  is  an  important 
noun  in  the  sentence,  and  tell  an  important  verb, 
so  that  both  are  entitled  to  grammatical  or  rhetori- 
cal stress.  Had  is  the  only  word  in  the  sentence 
which  is  stressed  a  little  differently  in  the  metre 
from  what  it  would  be  in  prose;  one  feels  that  in 
prose  its  stress — because  of  its  slighter  importance 
— would  be  lighter  than  that  on  thing  or  tell;  yet 
it  would  certainly  be  heavier  than  that  on  either 
of  its  neighbors,  he  and  to,  which  are  wholly  un- 
stressed, and  it  therefore  easily  assumes  the  metrical 
stress  desired  for  its  position  in  the  sentence.  But 
it  is  not  often  that  a  phrase  will  be  found  so  natur- 
ally adapted  to  the  stresses  of  verse  rhythm.  Thus 
in  the  line 

'*  Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me" 

it  is  evident  that  the  rhythm  asks  for  more  stress 
on  did  that  it  would  have  in  prose  speech ;  and  this 
is  readily  granted,  for  it  is  a  word  which  can  easily 
take  a  stress,  and — even  in  prose — is  stressed  rather 
more  than  the  last  syllable  of  ever,  which  precedes 
it,  or  the  he  which  follows  it.    In  the  line 

"  He   swept   the    spring   that   watered    my   hearts 
drouth  " 


ACCENT.  169 

the  syllable  my  also  needs  a  stronger  stress  for  the 
rhythm  than  it  would  have  in  the  prose  sentence; 
and  this  cannot  easily  be  granted  it,  since  to  accent 
the  my  strongly  would  give  a  false  emphasis  and  a 
false  meaning.  One  can  see,  however,  that  even 
this  my  may  be  stressed  a  little  more  than  the  pre- 
ceding last  syllable  of  zvatercd,  and  perhaps  a  little 
more  in  verse  than  it  would  be  in  prose.*  Once 
more,  let  us  consider  the  line — 

"  Only   our   mirrored   eyes   met   silently." 

Here  it  is  the  last  syllable  which  seems  to  require 
a  strong  stress  for  the  completion  of  the  rhythm,  but 
which  in  prose  utterance  would  bear  little  or  none. 
Yet  the  line  is  neither  unusual  nor  disagreeable.  In 
reading  it  we  do  not,  indeed,  as  in  the  other  cases, 
give  the  light  syllable  a  stronger  stress  than  in 
prose,  but  rather  may  be  said  to  think _  a  stress  for 
it;  and  so  generally  for  the  final  syllable  of  the 
line,t  when  it  is  capable  of  bearing  the  slightest 
secondary  stress.  The  final  syllable  of  "  silently  "  / 
is  such  a  syllable,  since  it  is  not  so  completely  un- 
stressed (even  in  prose)  as  the  one  preceding;  for 
the  second  syllable  of  silent  or  silently  it  would 
be  very  difficult  to  imagine  a  stress,  no  matter  how 
much  the  rhythm  might  require  it. 

*  It  may  be  noticed  again  that  the  want  of  stress  in  "  -tered  "  and 
"  my  "  is  compensated  for  by  the  repeated  stress  on  the  following 
syllables,  "  heart's  drouth." 

t  Compare  the  privilege,  in  classical  prosody,  by  which  even  a 
naturally  short  syllable  is  regarded  as  long  at  the  end  of  the  verse. 


I70  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

All  these  cases  have  been  those  in  which,  for 
purposes  of  verse  rhythm,  a  syllable  has  been 
stressed  more  strongly  than  it  would  have  been 
stressed  in  prose,  yet  without  going  beyond  cer- 
tain limits  of  natural  word  accent.  We  may  also 
find  cases  where  the  syllable  may  be  stressed  less 
strongly  for  the  same  purpose.    In  the  line 

"  Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair  " 

the    adjective    dark    would    bear,    in    prose    utter- 
ance, about  the  same  rhetorical  stress  as  the  first 
syllable   of   ripples.      In    verse,    however,    since   it 
occupies  the  place  of  a  light  syllable  in  the  rhythmi- 
cal scheme,  its  stress  may  be  lightened  sufficiently 
to  bring  a  stronger  stress  on  the  syllable  that  fol- 
lows.    It  would  be  easy  to  find  even  more  obvious 
illustrations  of  the  same  principle. 
^         \\q  may  also  find  many  instances  where  these 
I   Hovering  '         ^^^'^  processes,  of  mcreasuig  or  dmim- 
^  ]   accents.  ishing    the    natural    prose    stresses    of 

^  syllables,  take  place  successively  in  the  case  of  ad- 

C^/^'  jacent  syllables,  thus  forming  a  compromised  pair  of 

^'  stresses — each  one  representing  something  yielded 

^       ^      ^"  by  natural  utterance  for  the  sake  of  rhythm,  yet 
^      s^  -   without  destroying  the  normal  total  of  stress.     The 
""v^^V  verse 
V 
^  C''  And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there  " 


ACCENT.  171 

shows  such  a  pair  of  syhables  in  ozm  lips.  In 
prose,  lips  would  be  stressed  more  strongly  than 
oivn;  the  verse  rhythm  expects  that  the  reverse 
will  be  the  case.  The  result  is,  since  own  is  quite 
capable  of  taking  a  stress  without  injuring  the  sense, 
that  the  total  stress  is  easily  divided  by  the  reader 
between  oivn  and  lips.  The  same  compromise  may 
be  made  with  the  syllables  that  sound  in  the  line 

"  In  the  low  wave  ;  and  that  sound  came  to  be."  * 

Such  compromised  accents  are  often  called  hover- 
ing, and  are  particularly  common  in  the  case  of 
compound  words,  where  the  stress  easilv  shifts  to 
either  member  or  is  divided  between  both;  as  in  a 
line  of  one  of  Shakspere's  songs: 

**  That   o'er  the   green   corn-field   did  pass." 

Let  us  now  try  to  summarize,  in  the  form  of  a 
few   definite  principles,   what  we  have 
seen  to  be  the  relations  of  normal  speech  laws  of  verse         X  \> 
accent  to  the  stresses  of  verse  rliythm.   ^^^^°*S' 

I.  In  general,  the  syllable  bearing  the  principal 
stress  in  an  English  word  can  be  used  only  in  the 
stressed  place  in  the  verse;  or,  if  used  in  another 
place,  it  triumphs  over  the  verse  rhythm,  and  the 
latter   is   altered.      In   like   manner,   a   wholly   un-  r« 

*  These  seven  examples  are  all  from  the  first  of  Rossetti's  Willow- 
wood  sonnets, — a  notable  study  in  the  delicate  variation  of  rhyth- 
mical stresses. 


1^2  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Stressed  syllable  will  be  used  only  in  an  unstressed 
place  in  the  verse.* 

2.  But  a  syllable  bearing  the  secondary  accent 
may  be  treated  as  either  stressed  or  unstressed,  for 
metrical  purposes ;  so  also  may  a  monosyllable,  pro- 
vided its  grammatical  or  rhetorical  stress  be  not 
violated. 

3.  Where  the  metrical  stress  conflicts,  not  with 
the  normal  word  accent,  but  only  wdth  the  gram- 
matical or  rhetorical,  the  difference  may  be  com- 
promised, and  the  stress  be  divided  (or  made  to 
"  hover  ")  between  the  two. 

4.  In  general,  stress  is  relative  rather  than  pos- 
itive; so  that  a  syllable  at  one  time  bearing  a  full 
stress  may  at  another  bear  only  a  secondary  stress. 
In  particular,  if  a  syllable  naturally  takes  a  lighter 
stress  than  the  one  immediately  adjacent  to  it,  it 
may  be  regarded  as  unstressed  for  metrical  pur- 
poses, even  if  stressed  in  its  own  word ;  f  and  con- 
versely, if  it  naturally  takes  a  heavier  stress  than 
the  adjacent  syllable,  it  may  be  regarded  as  metri- 

*  The  only  exception  to  this  rule  is  where  an  unstressed  syllable 
is  used  in  such  a  way — for  example,  is  made  to  bear  the  rime — as 
to  indicate  that  the  poet  wishes  it  to  be  stressed  in  violation  of  word 
accent ;  in  this  case  the  accent  is  called  wrenched.  Examples  are 
such  conventional  ballad  terminations  as  conntree  (the  second  syllable 
bearing  the  riming  stress),  and  an  occasional  bold  license  like  that 
of  Swinburne  in  The  Leper,  where  "  well-water  "  rimes  with  "  her," 
or  of  Rossetti  in  Willowwood,  where  "  wing-feathers  "  rimes  with 
«'  hers." 

t  In  illustration,  compare  the  first  syllable  of  "  over  "  in  such  a 
verse  as  *'  Far  over  seas,  and  beyond  all  the  mountains  "  with  the 
same  syllable  in  such  a  verse  as  "  Over  the  ocean  wave." 


ACCENT. 


173 


cally   stressed    (especially   in  the  last  place  in  the 
verse)  even  if  unstressed  in  its  own  word. 

The  views  here  presented  as  to  the  variation  of  speech 
stresses  in  shifting  conformity  to,  or  in  conflict  with, 
the  metrical  scheme,  may  be  regarded  as  holding  the 
middle  ground  between  two  extreme  positions,  accord- 
ing to  which  word  stress  on  the  one  hand,  or  met- 
rical stress  on  the  other,  is  to  be  preserved  at  any  cost. 
Critics  who  represent,  on  the  whole,  the  effort  to  base 
verse  structure  on  the  ordinary  arrangements  of 
speech  stresses,  include  no  less  distinguished  a  scholar 
than  Professor  Skeat,  who  wishes  to  analyze  verse 
by  "  the  natural  method  of  grouping  the  syllables 
around  the  accented  syllables  with  which,  in  act- 
ual pronunciation,  they  are  associated."  and  Mr. 
Mark  Liddell,  who  in  a  somewhat  similar  manner 
represents  metrical  rhythm  as  resting  fundament- 
ally on  the  rhetorical  stresses  of  poetical  sentences. 
(See  further,  on  both  these  critics  and  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges,  in  chap,  v  below.)  At  the  other  extreme 
are  the  views  of  Professor  J.  W.  Bright,  who  wishes 
to  preserve  the  regular  metrical  stress  of  English 
words,  even  where  it  conflicts  boldly  with  their 
ordinary  stress  values,  and  in  order  to  do  so  constructs 
a  theory  of  a  kind  of  **  pitch-accent,"  a  variety  of  the 
secondary  stress.  This  secondary  stress,  in  which 
the  element  of  pitch  is  more  conspicuous  than  that  of 
pure  stress  or  of  quantity,  he  believes  is  normally  im- 
posed upon  all  syllables  which  occupy  the  position  in 
which  metrical  accent  is  expected,  when  they  bear 
no  natural  word  accent  of  themselves.  Thus  in  the 
verse 

'*  To  be  or  not  to  be :  that  is  the  question" 


174  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

he  places  this  pitch-accent  or  metrical  ictus  on  *'  is," 
although  admitting  the  principal  rhetorical  accent  on 
**  that."  (See  his  paper  on  ''Proper  Names  in  Old 
English  Verse,"  in  the  Publications  of  the  Modern^ 
Language  Association,  vol.  xiv,  p.  347,  and  that  on 
"  Grammatical  Ictus  in  English  Verse,"  in  the  Fiirnivall 
Miscellany  of  1901.)  Most  persons  find  this  *' pitch- 
accent"  a  difficult  matter  to  understand,  and  the 
theory  seems  to  have  found  acceptance  only  with  cer- 
tain pupils  and  associates  of  Professor  Bright.  Cer- 
tain of  these  have  developed  it  more  in  detail ;  for 
example  Dr.  Geo.  D.  Brown,  in  a  monograph  called 
Syllabification  and  Accent  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  Dr. 
Raymond  D.  IVIiller,  in  Secondary  Accent  in  Modern 
English  Verse,  and  Dr.  \Y^^^J^Ielton,  in  The  Rhetoric 
of  John  Donne's  Verse.  As  Air.  Omond  observes 
of  such  of  these  papers  as  he  has  seen,  "  their  cen- 
tral position  is  always  assumed,  never  established 
by  argument."  It  probably  amounts  to  a  subjective 
experiment  in  the  way  of  interpreting  the  conflict  of 
rhetorical  and  rhythmical  accents ;  and  the  examples 
of  such  conflict  (which  by  most  critics  would  be 
called  instances  either  of  inverted  or  hovering  accent), 
accumulated  in  these  studies,  are  valuable  for  all  stu- 
dents of  metre.  The  poetry  of  Donne,  studied  in  detail 
by  Dr.  Melton,  has  long  been  recognized  as  giving  the 
most  remarkable  group  of  such  conflicting  arrange- 
ments of  stress  to  be  found  in  English  poetry.  Dr. 
Melton  has  accumulated  no  little  evidence  looking  to- 
ward the  conclusion  that  the  peculiarities  of  Donne's 
verse  are  deliberate  devices  of  his  art,  and  by  no  means 
due  to  indifference  to  form  or  to  an  untrained  ear. 
But  most  readers  will  probably  find  more  satisfaction 
in  the  interpretation  offered  by  Professor  H.  M. 
Bjglden,  in  an  unpublished  paper  on  "JDonne^  Pros- 


QUANTITY.  175 

ody  "  from  which  Dr.  Melton  quotes  (p.  56),  than  in 
his  own  application  of  the  "  secondary  accent  "  theory. 
Professor  Beldcn  says  in  part :  ''  The  verse-rhythm 
of  Donne's  poetry  is  the  natural  and  outward  form 
of  his  mental  temper.  ...  In  Donne  the  meaning, 
straining  against  the  rhythm  of  the  fore-established 
metre  in  the  reader's  mind,  reproduces  there  the  slow, 
tense  emphasis  of  Donne's  thought.  The  melodists, 
from  Greene  and  Marlowe  to  Swinburne,  are  always  in 
danger  (if  it  is  a  danger)  of  lulling  the  mind  to  sleep 
with  the  music  of  the  verse.  The  verse  pattern  is 
caught  at  once.  .  .  .  Donne's  verse  is  never  lyric  in 
this  sense.  Instead  he  leaves  you.  line  after  line  and 
phrase  after  phrase,  in  doubt  of  the  pattern,  or  of 
how  the  line  is  to  be  fitted  to  the  pattern,  producing 
thereby  a  searching  pause  on  almost  every  syllable, — 
a  sort  of  perpetual  '  hovering  accent.'  " 

We  now  come  to  the  matter  of  the  relation  of  the 
sounds  of  English  speech  to  verse-rhythm  so  far 
as   concerns    their   quantitv   or    Iciio-fh.    „ 

^  •"  «=•  Speech  quanti- 

Here  we  shall  find  the  conditions  very  ties  and  verse 
similar    to     those     already    considered   ^  ^ 
with     respect    to     accent,     but     with     this     differ- 
ence: that  the  quantities  of  English  syllables  are 
even  less  fixed,  and  consequently  more  flexible,  than 
their  stresses.     In  the  early  periods  of  the  language 
syllables  were  evidently  distinguishable  quite  gener- 
ally as  long  or  short,  just  as  they  are  distinguished        ^ 
as  long  and  short  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages. 
But  in  modern  English  very  few  syllables  are  ob- 
viously long  or  obviously  short,  to  a  degree  which 
is  felt  by  every  one,  or  w'hich  amounts  to  a  require- 


1^6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ment  of  pronunciation  at  all  comparable  to  the  re- 
quirement that  certain  syllables  shall  be  stressed. 
Certain  vowels  are  commonly  called  ''  long,"  like  the 
a  in  pane,  the  o  in  cone,  the  e  in  beet;  but  these 
vowels  are  really  prolonged  but  slightly,  and  there 
is  no  difficulty  in  pronouncing  pane  in  substantially 
the  same  time  as  pan,  cone  in  the  same  time  as  con, 
and  heet  in  the  same  time  as  het.  We  do  not  hear 
such  obviously  prolonged  vowels  as  may  still  be 
heard  in  the  German  language,  in  words  like  Saal 
and  See.  Certain  diphthongs,  especially  that  found 
in  tozim  and  that  in  coin,  may  be  said  to  be  per- 
ceptibly longer  than  most  other  vowel  sounds;  yet 
even  in  these  cases  what  we  mean  is  rather  that 
they  tend  to  be  long,  or  that  they  may  easily  be  pro- 
longed, rather  than  that  they  must  be.  The  length 
of  vowel  sounds  may  make  a  good  deal  of  difference 
in  the  melody  of  our  verse,  but  it  is  rarely  of  a 
sufficiently  definite  character  to  make  much  dif- 
ference in  its  rhythm. 

Syllables  are  said  to  be  long,  however,  not  merely 
because  of  long  vowels  but  because  of  the  presence 
of  consonant  sounds  in  addition  to  the  vowels.  It 
is  a  familiar  principle  of  Latin  quantity  that  two 
consonants  following  a  vowel  (with  few  exceptions) 
make  long  the  syllable  in  which  it  stands;  and 
theoretically  this  rule  may  be  said  to  hold  good  for 
English  also.  When  two  consonants  follow  a  vowel 
(unless  they  be  such  as  coalesce  into  a  single  sound, 
like  hi  and  the  like),  the  first  of  them  is  attached 


I 


QUANTITY.  177 

to  the  vowel  to  form  the  syllable  in  which  it  stands, 
while  the  other  is  usually  attached  to  tlie  following 
vowel  to  form  the  next  syllable.  The  con- 
sonant thus  ''  closes  "  the  syllable  behind  it,  and 
requires  that  it  be  uttered  more  completely, — in 
other  words,  that  it  be  prolonged.  Thus  the  first 
syllable  of  plenty  is  perceptibly  longer  than  that  of 
penny,  simply  because  the  t  after  the  n  closes  up 
the  first  syllable,  making  it  necessary  to  pronounce 
the  n  as  a  part  of  that  syllable;  in  the  other  word 
the  n  (which  is  but  a  single  sound,  though  written 
in  doubled  form)  goes  over  and  belongs,  in  syllable 
pronunciation,  with  the  y.  Consonant  quantities 
of  this  sort,  however,  like  the  quantities  of  vowel 
sounds,  while  they  play  a  large  part  in  the  smooth- 
ness and  melody  of  our  verse,  are  but  slightly 
significant  for  its  rhythm.  The  disposition  of  our 
speech  is  to  hurry  over  unstressed  syllables  with 
rapidity,  and  this  may  be  done  and  is  done  even 
when  the  syllables  are  theoretically  long  because  of 
the  presence  of  several  consonants.  When  these 
consonants  become  so  numerous  as  to  make  it  diffi- 
cult to  pronounce  them  rapidly,  as  is  the  case  in  a 
word  like  strange  (a  syllable  long  in  every  possible 
way),  then  they  perceptibly  fill  up  the  time  of  a 
rhythmical  period;  and  this  length  is  eagerly  availed 
of — as  we  shall  see — to  make  a  single  syllable,  on 
occasion,  fill  the  time  of  two.  Yet  on  the  other 
hand,  when  the  poet  wishes  us  to  hurry  over  them 


i;8  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

in  the  smallest  rhythmical  period,  as  Swinburne 
does,  for  example,  in  the  line 

"  Time  sheds  them  like  snows  on  strange  regions," 

we  follow  his  bidding,  though  perhaps  with  some 
complaint  at  the  work  which  the  tongue  has  to  do 
to  keep  up  with  the  pace  of  the  rhythm. 

The  statement  made  a  moment  ago,  that  it  is  char- 
acteristic of  our  speech  to  hurry  over  unstressed 

syllables  rapidly,  suggests  the  converse, 
quantity  and       that   it  is  also  our  tendency  to  linger 

on  syllables  strongly  stressed.  If  this 
is  true,  it  appears  that  there  is  an  intimate  con- 
nection between  stress  and  quantity  in  English 
speech;  and  this  fact  has  led  some  writers  to  go  so 
far  as  to  say  that  for  English  usage  quantity  and 
accent  are  the  same  thing.*  This  is  certainly  er- 
roneous. Even  if  every  accented  syllable  were  long 
and  every  unaccented  syllable  short,  quantity  and 
accent  would  still  be  different  elements  of  sound, 
produced  in  different  ways.  And  it  is  quite  possible 
to  find  stressed  syllables  which  are  uttered  quickly, 
and  unstressed  syllables  which  may  be  prolonged. 
It  is  nevertheless  true  that  in  both  our  prose  and 
our  verse  length  and  stress,  shortness  and  lightness, 
tend  to  go  together.  One  may  see  at  least  two 
reasons  w^hy  this  is  so :  ( i )  a  stress  is  more  pleas- 
ing to  the  ear  when  it  rests  on  a  sound  that  can 

*  For  example,  Poe,  in  his  essay  on  "  The  Rationale  of  Verse." 


QUANTITY.  lyg 

be  prolonged,  such  as  toll,  than  when  it  rests  on  a 
very  short  syllable  like  bit;  and  (2)  the  stressed 
syllables,  being  the  important  ones  (whether  from 
etymological,  grammatical,  or  rhetorical  reasons), 
are  likely  to  be  prolonged  because  of  this  very  im- 
portance, while  those  unimportant  for  any  of  these 
reasons  are  likely  to  be  neglected  both  in  respect 
of  stress  and  time.  If  we  wish  to  make  an  expres- 
sion emphatic,  such  as  "  You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  that  that  is  John  Jones!  "  we  shall  find  that  we 
not  only  stress  both  John  and  Jones,  but  that  we 
tend  to  lengthen  both  those  syllables.  If  we  sim- 
ply say  *'  John  Jones's  brother  was  here  this  morn- 
ing," John  and  Jones  will  be  both  lighter  and  shorter 
syllables  than  in  the  former  instance.  This  shows 
us  how  natural  it  is,  from  the  simple  standpoint 
of  rhetorical  emphasis,  that  quantity  and  stress 
should  keep  together. 

Verse  rhythm,  being  peculiarly  sensitive  to  both 
stress  and  quantity,  is  even  more  likely  than  prose 
speech  to  keep  these  two  elements  together.  Mr. 
Omond,  in  A  Study  of  Metre,  brings  together  these 
lines,  ''  taken  almost  at  random  from  Tennyson's 
blank  verse,"  as  illustrations  of  the  usage  of  poets  * 
in  choosing  naturally  long  syllables  to  bear  the 
metrical  stresses : 

The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world. 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

*  Not  all  poets,  certainly,  do  it  to  an  equal  degree.     For  some,  the 
element  of  quantity  is  but  faintly  recognized. 


l8o  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 

Again  for  glory,  while  the  golden  lyre. 

To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ. 

The  craft  of  kindred,  and  the  godless  hosts 

Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern   Sea. 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot. 

I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe  and  wrong. 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

If  we  wish  illustrations  of  the  converse  tendency, 
— the  tendency  to  choose  short  syllables  where  there 
is  no  metrical  stress  expected, — we  shall  find  them 
most  obvious  in  trisyllabic  metres,  where  more  rapid 
utterance  constantly  makes  two  short  syllables  fill 
the  time  which  a  single  long  one  might  occupy. 
Such  are  these  lines  from  Swinburne's  In  the  Water: 

''  The  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the  song  of  the 
joy  of  her  waking  is  rolled 

From  afar  to  the  star  that  recedes,  from  anear  to 
the  wastes  of  the  wild  wide  shore. 

Her  call  is  a  trumpet  compelling  us  homeward :  if 
dawn  in  her  east  be  acold, 

From  the  sea  shall  we  crave  not  her  grace  to  re- 
kindle the  life  that  it  kindled  before, 

Her  breath  to  requicken,  her  bosom  to  rock  us, 
her  kisses  to  bless  as  of  yore?" 

Yet,  remembering  these  natural  tendencies  of 
syllables  toward  long  or  short  times  of  utterance,  we 
must  have  even  more  clearly  in  mind  the  fact  that 
their   quantity   is   a   flexible   thing,   which   can   be 


I 


QUANTITY,  I3l 

adapted  to  the  requirements  of  the  time-intervals 
of  rhythm.  A  syllable  naturally  long  may  be  made 
to  fill  the  place  of  two  short  syllables,  so 

.         .      .       ".  .      ,       Quantity  altered 

as  to  keep  the  unit  of  rhythm  of  the  to  fit  the  metri- 
same   length;   and   a    syllable    not    nat-  <=^^s^^^°^^' 
urally  long  may  be  so  prolonged  as  to  serve  the 
same  purpose,  unless  its  sound  be  so  conspicuously 
short  as  to  make  it  unfit  for  such  prolongation.     In 
the  passage  just  cjuoted  from   Swinburne  we  find 
the  syllable  wide  filling  the  place  of  two  short  syl- 
lables, in  line  two;  and  a  little  further  on  in  the 
same  poem  the  syllables  ycariis  and  flecked  serve 
the  same  purpose.     In  these  last  two  cases  the  syl- 
lables are  evidently  well  fitted  by  natural  length  for 
such  a  substitution;  zvide  is  not  so  essentially  long,  ^ J,  ^ 
but  is  easily  made  so,  while  in  other  places  it  might   ^*>JLt7     / 
be  fairly  short.     In  this  verse, — 

"  Is  less  than  the  rapture  of  spirit  whereby,  though 
the  burden  it  quits  were  sore," 
it  appears  that  the  syllable  iverc  must  be  made  to 
fill  the  place  of  two  short  syllables;  and  this  it  is 
not  fitted  to  do,  either  by  natural  length  or  rhetor- 
ical importance.  It  will  be  found  that  in  reading 
the  line  the  duty  is  shifted  back  upon  the  word 
quits,  which  not  only  fills  the  time  of  the  long  syl- 
lable in  its  own  place,  but  that  of  a  missing  short 
syllable  in  the  following  time-unit.  The  same  thing 
is  true  of  the  syllable  -durcs  in  this  line: 

"  In  the  life  that  endures  no  burden,  and  bows  not 
the  forehead,  and  bends  not  the  knee." 


1 82  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Other  types  of  flexibility  in  the  length  of  English 
syllables  are  admirably  illustrated  by  Coleridge's 
Chrisfabel,  a  poem  in  which  a  constant  variation  in 
the  number  of  syllables  is  not  permitted  to  interfere 
with  the  general  equality  of  the  time-intervals  be- 
tween stresses.     For  example: 

"  There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air  S  S*^ 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl  Lf 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek —  3 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl  3 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan,  i 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,  V 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high,  V 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky.'*  iy 

And  again : 

"  A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate, 
The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 
Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out." 

Here  the  chief  task  of  the  reader  is  to  shorten  un- 
stressed syllables  in  order  to  hurry  on  to  the  next 
stress.  In  some  cases  the  task  is  easy,  because  of  the 
natural  shortness  or  unimportance  of  the  syllables; 
in  others  it  is  not  so  easy, — notably  in  the  case  of 
the  syllable  marched,  in  the  last  line  quoted,  which  is 
naturally  very  long,  but  is  here  to  be  shortened  in 
the  deliberate  effort  to  keep  the  time-intervals 
of  the  rhythm  equal.  The  long  syllable  ironed,  how- 
ever, is  given  abundant  time  for  utterance,  occupy- 


QUANTITY.  183 

ing  not  only  its  natural  time  but  that  of  a  missing 
short  syllable  in  the  place  immediately  following. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  will  be  noticed  that  both  syl- 
lables of  the  words  little  and  middle  are  naturally 
so  short  that  there  is  difficulty  in  finding  sufficient 
quantity  of  sound  to  fill  up  the  time-intervals  in 
which  they  stand. 

When  quantity  is  deficient  because  syllables  as 
pronounced  do  not  fill  up  the  time-in-   „ 

Pauses  used  to 

tervals,  there  is  a  method  of  compensa-  complete  time- 
tion  which  we  have  not  yet  noticed.     It  ^°^®''^^^' 
may  be  illustrated  by  this  line  of  Pope's: 

*'  Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there." 

Here  the  syllable  -trine  is  both  unstressed  and 
very  short,  and  the  following  hut,  though  it  is  cap- 
able of  bearing  a  stress  and  of  being  prolonged, 
cannot  here  be  made  stronger  without  injuring  the 
rhetorical  emphasis.  The  comma,  however,  indi- 
cates a  pause,  and  every  reader  would  make  a  pause 
sufficient  to  compensate  for  the  lack  of  quantity  in 
the  syllables.*  Similar  instances  may  be  found  on 
almost  every  page  of  poetry.  In  the  first  line  of 
Paradise  Lost,  for  example, — 

"  Of  man's   first  disobedience,  and  the   fruit," — 

*  Of  course  it  must  not  be  understood  that  all  rhetorical  pauses, 
indicated  by  commas,  are  compensatory  and  count  in  the  rhythmical 
time.  Many  such  pauses  have  to  sUal  their  time  from  the  rhyth- 
mical intervals, — like  ordinary  phrase-pauses  in  music. 


1 84  ^J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

not  only  can  the  word  and  be  slightly  lengthened 
(that  is,  pronounced  more  deliberately  and  dis- 
tinctly) from  its  usual  prose  utterance,  but  the 
pause  indicated  by  the  comma  helps  to  compensate 
for  its  slight  quantity.  In  like  manner,  again,  the 
line 

■  '^      y    *' Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow" 

^  requires  us  to  lengthen  the  syllable  dy-  far  be- 
yond its  normal  prose  length,  and  even  suggests  a 
slight  rhythmical  pause  before  moon;  while  the 
lengthening  of  moon,  a  still  easier  change  of  quan- 
tity, is  assisted  by  the  following  pause  indicated  by 
the  comma.  Thus  everywhere  the  two  methods  of 
compensation — lengthening  and  pausing — help  to 
fill  the  theoretically  equal  time-intervals.     It  is  of 

I  course  observable  that  the  ordinary  reader  does  not 
make  use  of  these  compensations  with  sufficient 
exactness  to  preserve  the  perfect   equality  of  the 

'.,  rhythmical   intervals;   in  this  respect,   as  we  have 
seen,  the  rhythm  of  verse  is  more  flexible  and  ir- 
regular than  that  of  music,  because  of  its  constant 
conflict   with  the  normal  utterance   of   the   words 
/^  which  are  brought  into  its  scheme ;  but  the  tendency 

is  always  to  make  these  words  fit  the  rhythmical 
scheme  by  such  changes  as  we  have  been  noticing. 
The  possibility  of  filling  a  rhythmi- 

Panses  compen-  ,        -     .  . 

sating  for  miss-  cal  mtcrval  by  a  pause  is  even  more 
ing  syllables.  clearly  showu  in  instances  where  the 
pause  takes  the  place  of  a  wholly  missing  syllable. 


QU/fNTITY.  185 

— not  merely  compensates  for  the  shortness  of  a 
syllable.  This  pause,  analogous  to  a  musical  rest 
equal  to  one  of  the  beats  of  the  musical  time,  is 
not  at  all  unusual  in  our  verse,  although  it  is  often 
neglected.  Striking  examples  are  found  in  such 
doggerel  rimes  as — 

"  Polly,   put   the  kettle  on, 
We'll  all  A  take  a  tea  ;  ** 

in  such  songs  as — 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  a  lang  a  syne  ?  " 

and  in  such  expressive  lyrical  rhythms  as — 
"  Break,  a  break,  a  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  sea !  " 

Sometimes  they  are  regularly  used  to  give  a  pecul- 
iar character  to  a  rhythm,  as  in  Kipling's  Last 
Chantey,  in  which  the  first  verse  of  each  stanza 
omits  two  unstressed  syllables : 

"  Loud  A  sang  the  souls  a  of  the  jolly,  jolly  marl- 
ners.    •* 

In  dramatic  poetry  such  pauses  may  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  indicating  a  natural  pause  in  the  speaker's 
utterance,  either  marking  the  transition  from  one 
passage  to  another,  or  giving  space  for  a  moment  of 

*  In  this  instance  the  time  of  the  missing  syllable  may  be  partly 
filled  by  lengthening  the  preceding  syllable,  as  is  easily  done  with 
"loud"  and  "souls;"  the  same  thing  is  observable  in  the  three  ex- 
amples quoted  above.  A  considerable  pause,  however,  is  clearly 
necessary. 


1 86  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

silent  action.  In  Shakspere's  verse,  for  such  pur- 
poses as  these,  even  a  stressed  syllable  seems  some- 
times to  be  omitted;  as  in  the  hnes 

"  Kneel  thou  down,  Philip,  a  But  rise  more  great  " 

{King  John,  I,  i,  i6i) 

and 

"  Than  the  soft  myrtle,  a  But  man,  proud  man." 
{Measure  for  Measure,  II,  ii,  117.) 

Such  instances  support  the  saying  of  Mr.  Omond, 
that  "  a  dropped  accent,  like  a  dropped  syllable, 
may  minister  to  our  perception  of  periodic  recur- 
rence." And  all  these  pauses  emphasize  the  similar 
remark  of  Sidney  Lanier  that  rhythm  "  maj  be  de- 
pendent on  silences  "  as  well  as  on  sounds.  In  dis- 
cussing accent  w^e  saw  that  the  reader  of  verse  may 
sometimes  think  a  stress  even  where  the  syllable 
must  be  left  unstressed  in  utterance;  still  more 
remarkable  is  the  power  of  the  inner  ear  to  enjoy 
rhythms  dependent  on  silent  time-intervals  between 
sounds. 

Let  us  now  try  to  summiarize,  as  was  done  in  the 
matter  of  stress,  the  principles  govern- 

Summaryof  .  .  r       i  i  ,         e 

laws  of  verse  mg  the  relations  of  the  element  ot 
quantities.  quantity  in  ordinary  speech  to  the  time- 
intervals  of  verse  rhythm. 

I.     Most  English  syllables  are  long  or  short  only 
relatively,  and  may  be  either  prolonged  or  shortened 
to  fit  rhythmical  intervals,  subject  in  some  degree  / 
to  their  rhetorical  importance. 


QUANTITY.  187 

2.  Syllables,  however,  which  are  most  easily 
prolonged  are  preferred  at  those  places  in  the  verse 
where  the  rhythmical  stress  is  expected;  and  syl- 
lables most  naturally  short  are  preferred  (particu- 
larly in  trisyllabic  metres)  for  the  unstressed  places. 

3.  When  the  natural  quantity  of  the  syllables  is 
insufficient  to  fill  the  normal  time-interval,  the  de- 
ficiency is  often  supplied  not  only  by  lengthening 
an  adjacent  syllable,  but  by  introducing  a  compen- 
sating pause. 

4.  Pauses  may  also  fill  the  place  of  wholly  miss- 
ing syllables,  in  order  to  complete  the  approximate 
equality  of  the  time-intervals  between  stresses. 

Such  are  some  of  the  ways  in  which  both  the 
writer  and  the  reader  of  English  verse  meet  the 
wonderfully  intricate  problem  of  the  ad-  ^^.^g^^^^^^ 
justment  of  our  natural  speech  to  the  of  speech 
laws  of  rhythm.  Sufficient  must  have  t°^^y^^°^' 
been  said,  at  any  rate,  to  show  the  delicacy  and  the 
complexity  of  both  arts— that  of  reading  and  that  of 
writing  verse  in  our  language.  On  the  one  hand 
lie  the  infinite  variations  of  stress-  and  time-values 
which  usage  has  developed  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
municating thought  and  feeling  through  language; 
on  the  other  the  great  principles  of  rhythm  which 
are  no  less  truly  natural,  and  which  we  know  most 
clearly  through  music.  The  result  is  in  a  sense  a 
compromise, — let  us  rather  say  a  combination  of 
forms,  which  gives  pleasure  at  the  same  time  by  the 
fidelity  with  which  the  language  of  poetry  fits  itself 


1 88  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

to  rhythm  and  the  persistency  with  which  it  varies 
from  rhythm."^  It  was  said  of  Chopin  that  in  play- 
ing his  waltzes  his  left  hand  kept  absolutely  perfect 
time,  while  his  right  hand  constantly  varied  the 
rhythm  of  the  melody,  according  to  what  musicians 
call  tempo  nihato,  ''  stolen "  or  distorted  time. 
Whether  this  is  true  in  fact,  or  even  physically  pos- 
sible, has  been  doubted ;  but  it  represents  a  perfectly 
familiar  possibility  of  the  mind.  Two  streams  of 
sound  pass  constantly  through  the  inner  ear  of  one 
who  understands  or  appreciates  the  rhythm  of  our 
verse :  one,  never  actually  found  in  the  real  sounds 
which  are  uttered,  is  the  absolute  rhythm,  its  equal 
time-intervals  moving  on  in  infinitely  perfect 
progression;  the  other,  represented  by  the  actual 
movement  of  the  verse,  is  constantly  shifting  by 
quickening,  retarding,  strengthening, or  weakening 
its  sounds,  yet  always  hovers  along  the  line  of  the 
perfect  rhythm,  and  bids  the  ear  refer  to  that 
perfect  rhythm  the  succession  of  its  pulsations. 

The  extent  to  which  quantity  or  time-values  may  be 
considered  essential  to  the  nature  of  English  rhythms, 
and  the  relation  of  this  element  to  that  of  stress,  are 
the  most  warmly  disputed,  and  doubtless  the  most 
truly  difficult,  matters  which  the  student  of  our  verse 
has  to  consider.   They  have  been  discussed  by  Sidney 

*  Guyau  interestingly  compares  the  artifice  by  which  syllables  are 
given  special  values  to  fit  them  to  the  metrical  scheme,  with  the 
"  tempered  scale  "  of  the  modern  pianoforte,  to  form  which  a  similar 
artifice  was  devised  for  the ///r/^  of  the  several  notes.  {Probl^mes 
de  rEsthetique  Coyitemporainey  p.  185.) 


QUANTITY,  189 

Lanier,  in  The  Science  of  English  Verse;  by  Poe  in 
his  essay  on  *'  The  Rationale  of  Verse ;  "  by  T.  D. 
Goodell,  in  an  article  on  ''  Quantity  in  English  Verse," 
in  the  Proceedings  of  the  American  Philological  So- 
ciety for  1885 ;  by  William  Larminie,  in  an  article  on 
"  The  Development  of  English  Metres  "  in  the  Con- 
temporary Review  for  November,  1894;  by  John  M. 
Robertson,  in  the  Appendix  to  Nczv  Essays  tozvards  a 
Critical  Method;  by  Mark  H.  Liddell,  in  An  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Scientific  Study  of  Poetry :  by  T.  S.  Omond. 
in  A  Study  of  Metre;  by  Wm.  Thomson,  in  The  Basis 
of  English  Rhythm;  and  by  most  of  those  who  have 
taken  part  in  the  controversy  regarding  English  imi- 
tations of  the  classical  hexameter  (see  references  in 
chap.  v).  Two  extremes  may  be  noted  at  once 
in  these  discussions:  the  position  of  those  who  would 
analyze  English  verse  primarily  into  exactly  equal 
time-intervals,  and  assign  exact  time-values  to  the 
separate  syllables,  as  to  the  separate  notes  in  musical 
rhythm,  treating  stress — as  in  music — as  an  incidental 
means  of  marking  the  time-intervals ;  and  the  position 
of  those  who  make  our  rhythms  to  depend  wholly  on 
arrangements  of  variously  stressed  syllables,  regarding 
it  as  a  mistaken  and  useless  effort  to  seek  for  regular 
time-intervals  or  feet,  much  less  for  regular  syllabic 
quantities.  Of  the  first  extreme  the  best  representa- 
tives to  which  students  of  the  subject  may  be  referred 
are  the  discussions  of  Sidney  Lanier  and  Mr.  William 
Thomson ;  of  the  other  extreme  the  discussion  of  Mr. 
Liddell.  For  the  one,  metre  has  fundamentally  the 
nature  of  music,  so  far  as  its  rhythmical  elements  are 
concerned  ;  for  the  other  it  is  simply  one  form  of  rhet- 
oric,— the  arrangement  of  words  by  a  peculiarly  regu- 
lar and  expressive  system  of  stresses.  Equally  con- 
flicting are  the  various  opinions  of  these  writers  on  the 


IQO  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

question  as  to  whether,  in  English,  a  stressed  syllable 
and  a  long  syllable  mean  substantially  the  same  thing. 
It  is  impossible  to  represent  by  brief  extracts  the  argu- 
ments on  these  matters ;  for  some  detailed  comment  on 
them,  the  student  may  be  referred  to  English  Verse, 
Part  III.  In  general,  the  tendency  of  recent  prosodical 
literature  has  been  to  avoid  either  extreme,  and  to 
recognize — somewhat  after  the  fashion  set  forth  in  the 
present  chapter — the  existence  and  the  importance  of 
both  the  elements  of  time  and  accent,  sometimes  con- 
flicting, sometimes  agreeing,  according  as  our  natural 
speech  utterance  fits  more  or  less  readily  the  theoreti- 
cal measures  of  the  rhythmical  scheme.  But  it  cannot 
be  said  that  anything  like  an  agreement  has  yet  been 
reached  on  the  question  whether  it  is  possible  to  ana- 
lyze and  describe  the  length  of  syllables  and  feet  with 
accuracy.  Mr.  Saintsbury,  the  latest  writer  on  English 
verse,  gives  it  as  his  personal  opinion  that  *'  in  En- 
glish accent  is  a  cause  of  quantity,  but  not  the  only 
cause,  and  not  a  stable  one ;  "  but  he  avoids  the  real 
issue  as  to  the  relation  of  this  matter  to  the  analysis  of 
metres,  using  the  terms  "  long"  and  "  short "  with 
explicit  ambiguity.  "  I  call  the  two  classes  '  longs  ' 
and  'shorts  '  without  the  very  slightest  innuendo  or 
insinuation  that  I  believe  the  source  of  difference  to  be 
the  greater  length  of  time,  the  greater  quantity,  in  the 
technical  sense,  of  the  one  as  compared  with  the  other. 
.  .  .  I  call  these  two  values  'long'  and  'short'  just 
as  I  might  call  them  '  Abracadabra  '  and  '  Abraxas  ' — 
absolutely  without  prejudice  or  preference  to  any 
theory  of  the  exact  process  by  which  the  one  becomes 
Abraxas  or  the  other  Abracadabra."  (Hist,  of  Eng. 
Prosody,  vol.  i,  p.  5.) 

One  of  the  most  suggestive,  and  really  practical,  as- 
pects of  the  discussion  is  that  which  concerns  the  possi- 


QUANTITY.  191 

billty  of  representing  English  metres  by  musical  no- 
tation. This  involves  two  subordinate  questions: 
whether  our  metres  are  properly  divisible  into  equal 
intervals,  and  whether  the  separate  syllables  are  exactly 
related  to  each  other  in  proportions  of  length  such  as 
musical  notes  are  fitted  to  represent.  If  the  views 
set  forth  in  the  earlier  pages  of  this  chapter  are  sound. 
we  should  probably  answer  the  first  question  in  the 
affirmative,  but  the  second  in  the  negative.  The  best 
way  for  the  individual  student  to  solve  it  for  himself  is 
to  consider  carefully  the  examples  given  by  Lanier 
and  Thomson  of  verse  described  by  musical  notation. 
(Those  of  Thomson  are  almost  certainly  the  best  that 
have  been  undertaken ;  still  others  may  be  found  in 
Dabney's  Musical  Basis  of  English  Verse.)  From  the 
standpoint  of  the  present  writer,  it  is  a  significant  fact 
that  these  defenders  of  the  musical  system  diflfer  radi- 
cally among  themselves  on  one  of  the  most  funda- 
mental questions  to  which  the  system  immediately 
gives  rise :  how  shall  we  represent,  musically,  a  normal 
verse  of  our  common  iambic  five-stress  measure? 
Lanier  and  Thomson  answer,  in  three-eight  time, 
giving  to  each  stressed  syllable  a  time-value  approxi- 
mately twMce  as  long  as  that  of  the  alternate  syllables. 
Dabney  answers,  in  two-eight  (or  two-four)  time;  and 
Omond  (although  not  using  the  musical  notation) 
tends  to  support  this  view,  treating  our  common  iambic 
measures  as  in  common  or  "  duple  "  time.  The  same 
question,  put  to  a  large  number  of  fairly  intelligent  stu- 
dents of  English  poetry,  has  usually  met  with  responses 
as  different  as  these  of  the  critics.  Why  is  it  that,  in 
the  presence  of  perfectly  familiar  musical  times  and 
perfectly  familiar  poetical  metres,  we  cannot  say  which 
jof  the  one  is  most  like  any  of  the  others,  when  it  comes 
to  accurate  denotation?    The  best  answer  is  that  the 


192  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

values  of  the  alternating  syllables  of  our  common  verse 
correspond  neither  to  double  nor  triple  time ;  no  ordin- 
ary reader  reads  the  stressed  syllable  with  twice  the 
length  of  the  unstressed,  nor  with  the  same  length.  It 
is  very  likely  that  a  measure  made  up  of  an  eighth 
note  plus  a  dotted  eighth  (equal  to  one  and  one-half 
the  time-value  of  the  eighth)  would  fairly  represent 
the  normal  syllabic  pairs  of  some  metres ;  in  others  an 
eighth  note  plus  a  double-dotted  eighth  (equal  to  one 
and  three-quarters  the  time  value  of  the  eighth)  would 
do  better.  No  such  measure,  of  course,  is  known  to 
music.  And  if  this  is  true  of  the  perfectly  regular 
and  typical  metre,  how  much  more  complicated  the 
problem  of  representing  the  constant  and  delicate 
alterations  of  syllabic  time  which  we  have  seen  are 
made  by  the  reader  in  adjusting  normal  speech  utter- 
ance to  the  rhythm  imposed  upon  it !  It  is  one  thing 
to  agree  that  the  time-intervals,  the  units  of  rhythm, 
in  a  normal  verse  tend  as  regularly  to  equality  of 
length  as  the  measures  of  music ;  but  quite  an- 
other thing  to  say  that  the  separate  syllables  within 
those  intervals  have  the  familiar  mathematical  re- 
lations of  length  which  we  use  in  the  rhythms  of 
music.  No ;  when  a  poem  is  set  to  music,  its  syllables 
take  on  new  and  artificial  time  relations,  other  than 
that  which  they  have  even  in  the  most  regular  metrical 
reading. 

Mr.  Omond,  although — as  we  have  seen — he  finds  it 
convenient  to  distinguish  our  metres  as  of  duple  and 
triple  time,  supports  these  conclusions  in  this  charac- 
teristically reasonable  summary :  "  It  will  also  be  evi- 
dent how  futile  it  is  to  expect  correspondence  between 
the  methods  of  metre  and  music.  Musical  notes  are  al- 
most pure  symbols.  In  theory  at  least,  and  no  doubt 
substantially   in   practice,   they   can   be   divided   with 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM.  1^3 

mathematical  accuracy — into  fractions  of  1-2,  1-4,  1-8, 
1-16,  etc. — and  the  ideal  of  music  is  absolute  accordance 
with  time.  Verse  has  other  methods  and  another  ideal. 
Its  words  are  concrete  things,  not  readily  carved  to  such 
exact  pattern.  .  .  .  The  perfection  of  music  lies  in  ab- 
solute accordance  with  time,  that  of  verse  in  continual 
slight  departures  from  time.  This  is  why  no  musical 
representations  of  verse  ever  seem  satisfactory.  They 
assume  regularity  where  none  exists.  .  .  .  On  the 
other  hand,  to  suppose  that  this  imperfection  is  itself 
rhythmical — that  these  aberrations  from  type,  varia- 
tions of  stress  and  quantity  and  what  not,  constitute 
in  themselves  the  law  of  verse — would  be  a  still  more 
fatal  blunder."     (A  Study  of  Metre,  p.  59.) 

We  have  next  to  consider  the  connection  between 
this  rhythmical  character  of  poetry  and  its  inner 
imaefinative     character     as     previously  ^,    , 

^  ^  -^     Rhythm  and 

Studied,  asking  ourselves  why  metre  theinnema- 
has  proved  to  be  an  essential  element  in  ^^^^  of  poetry, 
poetry,  and  what  function  it  performs  in  the  total 
purpose  of  the  art.  Many  answers  to  these  ques- 
tions have  been  proposed  by  various  critics,  but  it 
will  be  found  that  most  of  them  may  be  considered 
under  three  heads :  the  relation  of  metre  to  poetry 
(i)  as  a  pleasure-giving  work  of  art,  (2)  as  the 
expression  of  emotion,  and  (3)  as  a  means  of  ideal- 
izing experiences  through  the  imagination. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  all  arts  seek  the  expression 
of  beauty,  poetry  no  less  than  the  rest,   „,    , 

,  .  Rhythm  as  a 

and  rhythm  impresses  the  ear  with  an  means  of 

effect    akin    to    that    of    beauty    to    the  ^'^^^y* 

eye.     The  explanation  of  this  impression  is  often 


194  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

sought  in  the  principle  of  "  Variety  in  Uniformity  " 
(which  only  carries  the  matter  a  step  further  by 
giving  it  a  name),  according  to  which  we  enjoy 
that  w^hich  seems  perpetually  approximating  to  reg- 
ularity or  likeness,  yet  is  forever  altering  its  forms. 
(Wordsworth  speaks  of  the  same  principle  in  the 
phrase  ''  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dissimili- 
tuije.")  How  characteristic  this  quality  is  of  the 
rhythms  of  our  verse,  the  greater  part  of  this  chap- 
ter has  certainly  tended  to  show.  But  further  than 
this,  the  metrical  form  of  poetry,  with  its  approxi- 
mation to  accurate  rhythm,  gives  a  sense  of  perfec- 
tion, of  completeness,  and  of  permanence,  which  in 
the  same  way  arouses  the  pleasure  characteristi- 
cally produced  by  w^orks  of  art.  Some  will  have 
it  that  the  very  appreciation  of  difficulties  overcome, 
arising  from  our  knowledge  that  to  fit  the  words  of 
common  speech  to  rhythmical  form  is  no  light  un- 
dertaking, is  an  element  in  this  pleasure.  Whether 
that  be  so  or  not,  the  resulting  perfection  is  cer- 
tainly perceived  and  enjoyed  by  an  almost  universal 
human  sense.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  an  effort  to  express 
this  effect  of  perfect  form  produced  by  metre,  spoke 
of  it  as  '*  that  finishing,  and  rounding,  and  *  tune- 
ful planeting '  of  the  poet's  creations  which  is  pro- 
duced of  necessity  by  the  smooth  tendencies  of  their 
energy  or  inward  working,  and  the  harmonious 
dance  into  which  they  are  attracted  round  the  orb 
of  the  beautiful;" — an  allusion  to  the  "nebular 
hypothesis,"  according  to  which  the  forms  of  the 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM.  195 

planets  in  the  solar  system  were  supposed  to  have 
been  due  to  the  action  of  the  law  of  gravitation  upon 
their  parts  and  their  movements.  In  the  same  way, 
Hunt  implies,  the  form  of  poetry  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  as  a  merely  arbitrary  thing  imposed 
upon  speech,  but  as  that  aspect  which  speech  pre- 
sents when  its  aspiration  toward  beauty  has  worked 
out  its  lawful  and  perfect  ends.  Emerson  makes 
use  of  a  similar  analogy  when  he  says,  *'  the  poet 
.  .  .  brings  you  heaps  of  rainbow  bubbles,  opaline, 
air-borne,  spherical  as  the  world,  instead  of  a  few 
drops  of  soap  and  water."  The  sphere  is  a  symbol 
of  perfection  to  the  eye;  rhythm  a  symbol  of  per- 
fection to  the  ear. 

In  the  second  place,  the  language  of  poetry  seeks 
metrical  form  because  it  is  in  an  especial  sense 
the  expression  of  emotion.     To  explain  „^   ^ 

^  ^  Rhytlim  as  ex- 

this  is  hardly  possible  except  by  restat-  pressiveof 
ing  in  different  forms  the  fact  that  '°''^^°^' 
human  emotion  seeks  rhythmical  utterance,  always 
and  everywhere.  Children,  barbarians,  and  mad- 
men— those  who  abandon  themselves  to  emotional 
expression  with  the  least  interference  by  the  reason 
— break  into  rocking  movements  of  the  body,  if  not 
into  dancing,  and  into  rhythmical  utterances  of 
voice,  with  instant  and  spontaneous  response  to  any 
emotional  stimulus.  As  civilization  advances,  and 
men  become  more  and  more  suspicious  of  unre- 
strained emotion,  they  teach  their  bodies  and  their 
voices   to   modify   and    curtail    these   expressions; 


196  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

dancing  becomes  a  merely  conventional  amusement, 
song  emphasizes  melody  and  harmony  rather  than 
pure  rhythm,  and  verse  comes  to  be  read  rhetori- 
cally rather  than  metrically.  Yet  happily  the 
natural  instinct  remains,  which  not 

"  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy." 

For,  although  we  use  prose  increasingly  to  express 
ideas  which  have  emotional  associations,  yet  when 
emotion  takes  the  reins  from  the  hands  of  reason, 
and  breaks  forth  unrestrained,  the  pace  becomes 
rhythmical  and,  if  natural  expression  is  really  at- 
tained, regular  metre  follows.'''  Or,  to  reverse  the 
order,  the  pulsations  of  rhythm,  whether  in  the  case 

*  Compare  some  remarks  of  Guyau,  in  Les  Problemes  de  VEstheti- 
que  Coiitemporame  :  "  All  of  us  have  spoken  [the  language  of  verse] 
at  certain  moments  of  our  life,  oftenest  without  knowing  it ;  our 
voices  had  melodic  inflections,  our  language  took  on  something  of 
that  rhythm  which  charms  us  in  the  poet ;  but  the  emotional  tension 
passed,  and  we  returned  to  ordinary  speech,  which  corresponds  to 
the  average  state  of  sensibility.  ...  To  fix  and  to  perfect  this  music 
of  emotion  was  at  the  outset,  and  still  is,  the  art  of  the  poet.  Ideal 
verse  might  be  defined  as  the  form  which  every  emotional  thought 
tends  to  assume."  (p.  179.)  To  this  view  M.  Combarieu  objects,  in 
Les  Rapports  de  la  Musique  et  de  la  Poesie,  maintaining  that  emotion, 
sofar  from  seeking  regular  utterance,  breaks  down  regularity,  and  that 
both  music  and  verse,  when  most  passionate,  burst  the  bonds  of  the 
normal  rhythm,  and  tend  toward  lawlessness.  P'rom  one  point  of 
view  both  these  observations  are  true,  and  not  contradictory. 
Emotion  is  itself  irregular  and  lawless  ;  yet  in  so  far  as  it  attempts  to 
become  tolerable,  or  is  made  pleasurable,  it  tends  toward  a  restrain- 
ing regularity  of  utterance.  Compare  the  remark  of  Wordsworth, 
cited  just  below. 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM.  igy 

of  a  drum,  a  strain  of  music,  or  a  passage  of  verse, 
will  stimulate  the  emotions,  exciting  them  to  that 
end  which  the  drummer,  the  musician,  or  the  poet 
desired.  Wordsworth  suggested  that  not  only  does 
rhythm  excite  the  emotions,  but  at  the  same  time, 
by  a  paradox,  it  relieves  them  through  its  regularity 
and  makes  them  pleasant  rather  than  painful.  ''  Ex- 
citement is  an  unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the 
mind;  .  .  .  tlie  co-presence  of  something  regular 
.  .  .  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy  in  tempering 
and  restraining  the  passion."  For  this  reason,  he 
goes  on  to  observe,  painful  scenes,  such  as  those 
of  tragedy,  are  more  tolerable — even  pleasurable — 
in  verse  than  in  prose;  a  fact  noted  by  others  and 
of  no  little  importance.  Other  reasons  for  this  fact 
will  be  considered  under  the  next  head.  Here  it  is 
sufficient  to  see  that  rhythmical  expression  stimu- 
lates emotion  where  it  is  not  already  present,  and 
forms  a  satisfying  and  soothing  means  of  giving 
it  utterance  which  is  natural  to  all  mankind — from 
the  child  and  the  barbarian  to  the  musician  and  the 
poet  of  matured  artistic  skill.  In  this  way,  too,  it 
forms  a  means  of  communicating  emotion,  as  when 
it  binds  individuals  together  in  the  expression  of 
sentiments  common  to  them  all,  or  when  it  perpet- 
uates the  symbols  of  emotional  expression  through 
indefinitely  long  periods.  Thus  when  a  drama  of 
Shakspere's  is  recited  or  acted  to-day,  the  listeners 
are  moved  by  the  emotion  which  he  originally  ex- 
pressed for  his  contemporaries ;  and  this  not  merely 


198  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

through  the  meanings  of  his  words,  but  through 
the  suggestive  cadence  of  his  rhythm. 

In  the  third  place,  metrical  form  is  a  means  by 
which  poetry  idealizes  experiences  through  the  imag- 
Ehythmasa  ination.  We  have  seen  something  of 
means  of  imag-    ^j-^jg  aspcct  of  poctry  in  the  preceding 

inative  ideah-  ^  .         ,  ,  . 

zation,  chapter, — how  it  takes  the  crude  mater- 

ials of  common  experience,  and  transmutes  them 
to  something  of  permanent  and  ideal  significance. 
The  change  from  the  broken  rhythms  of  prose 
speech  to  the  more  perfect  metrical  rhythm  of  verse 
is  at  once  a  symbol  of  and  an  aid  to  this  transforma- 
tion. As  Hazlitt  puts  it:  "The  jerks,  the  breaks, 
the  inequalities  and  harshnesses  of  prose  are  fatal 
to  the  flow  of  a  poetical  imagination.  .  .  .  But 
poetry  *  makes  these  odds  all  even.'  It  is  to  supply 
the  inherent  defect  of  harmony  in  the  customary 
mechanism  of  language,  to  make  the  sound  an  echo 
to  the  sense,  ...  in  short,  to  take  the  language  of 
the  imagination  from  off  the  ground,  and  enable 
it  to  spread  its  wings  where  it  may  indulge  its  own 
impulses, 

*  Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air,' 

without  being  stopped,  or  fretted,  or  diverted  with 
the  abruptnesses  and  petty  obstacles,  and  discord- 
ant flats  and  sharps  of  prose,  that  poetry  was  in- 
vented." Emerson  gives  us  a  similar  thought: 
"  You  shall  not  speak  ideal  truth  in  prose  uncontra- 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM.  igg 

dieted:  you  may  in  verse.  The  best  thoughts  run 
into  the  best  words;  imaginative  and  affectionate 
thoughts  into  music  and  metre."  And  Mr.  Court- 
hope  has  pointed  out  how  this  capacity  of  metre  to 
lift  language  above  the  level  of  prose  enables  it  to 
make  those  daring  flights  of  imaginative  style  which 
prose  would  break  down  in  attempting.  *'  When 
Marlowe  wishes  to  represent  the  emotions  of  Faus- 
tus,  after  he  has  called  up  the  phantom  of  Helen 
of  Troy,  it  is  plain  that  some  very  rapturous  form 
of  expression  is  needed  to  convey  an  adequate  idea 
of  such  famous  beauty.  Marlowe  rises  to  the  oc- 
casion in  those  *  mighty  lines  '  of  his : 

*  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burned  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? ' 

But  it  is  certain  that  he  could  only  have  ventured 
on  the  sublime  audacity  of  saying  that  a  face 
launched  ships  and  burned  towers,  by  escaping  from 
the  limits  of  ordinary  language,  and  conveying  his 
metaphor  through  the  harmonious  and  ecstatic 
movements  of  rhythm  and  metre."  The  same  prin- 
ciple is  illustrated  by  considering  how  essential 
is  verse  form  to  that  poetry  which  is  most  purely 
imaginative.  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  could  be  para- 
phrased in  prose  with  little  loss ;  Gray's  Elegy  with 
less  satisfaction;  Wordsworth's  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality with  still  greater  impoverishment  of  its 
value;  while  Shelley's  Skylark  turned  to  prose 
would  be  an  intolerable  absurdity.     One  might  al- 


200  ^f^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

most  say  (returning  to  a  figure  of  Hazlitt's)   that 

the   imagination    moves    as   much    more   easily   by 

rhythm  than  without  it  as  a  bird  moves  more  easily 

by  his  wings  than  by  his  feet. 

This  idealizing  power  of  rhythm  has  a  still  deeper 

significance,  which  was  suggested  by  the  observation 

-.^    ^  in  an  earlier  paras^raph  that  trag^ic  ex- 

Rhythm  as  a  ,  . 

modifier  of  crude  perience  is  much  more  tolerable  in  verse 
^^^^^^'  than   in   prose.      This,   w^e   saw,   might 

be  regarded  as  partly  due  to  the  soothing  and 
controlling  effect  of  the  regular  stresses  of  the 
metre;  it  is  still  more  clearly  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  metrical  form  lifts  the  material  above  the 
plane  of  crude  reality.  It  not  only  softens  and 
beautifies  it,  by  imposing  upon  it  the  rhythmical 
form,  but  seems  also  in  a  sense  to  show  its  univer- 
sal significance.  The  prose  utterance  of  a  tragic 
sufferer  is  so  purely  individual  as  to  be  almost  wholly 
painful;  verse  utterance  gives  a  certain  impression 
of  universal  law  underlying  his  words,  and  he  be- 
comes a  spokesman  for  the  sorrows  of  the  w^hole 
race.  For  these  reasons  prose  tragedies  are  few; 
in  English  literature  not  a  single  great  one  can  be 
named.*    To  the  same  principle  Goethe  testified  in 

*  In  this  connection  the  query  naturally  arises  :  why,  then,  is  prose 
adequate  for  the  romantic  (and  sometimes  tragic)  novel  ?  No  single 
and  wholly  satisfactory  answer  can  be  given.  It  has  already  ap- 
peared (see  chapter  i)  that  the  prose  romance  forms  the  most  diffi- 
cult problem  in  the  attempt  to  fix  the  boundaries  between  poetic 
literature  and  literature  in  prose.  That  it  is  often  "poetic,"  in  cer- 
tain senses  of  the  word,  there  is  no  doubt.     Two  brief  answers  to 


FUNC TIONS  OF  RH  Y THM.  20 1 

an  interesting  letter  to  Schiller,  at  the  time  he  was 
engaged  in  writing  Faust:  "  certain  tragic  scenes," 
he  said,  **  were  written  in  prose,  but  they  are  quite 
intolerable  compared  with  the  others  through  their 
naturalness  and  strength.  I  am  trying  therefore  to 
put  them  into  rime,  for  then  the  idea  is  seen  as  if 
through  a  veil,  and  the  direct  impression  of  the 
tremendous  material  is  softened."*  Shakspere's 
practice  on  the  whole  points  to  the  same  truth.  It 
is  true  that  in  certain  of  his  tragedies  (and  more 
especially  in  the  later  ones)  he  uses  a  considerable 
amount  of  serious  prose.  But  it  will  be  found  that 
this  can  usually  be  explained  in  one  of  two  ways : 
as  due  to  the  presence  of  an  extraordinary  amount 
of  the  intellectual  element,  blending  with  the  imag- 
inative (as  in  Hamlet),  or — what  is  still  more  sig- 
nificant for  our  purpose — to  the  effort  to  make 
tragic  suffering  as  painful  as  possible.  In  this  latter 
case  we  have  gone  all  the  way  round  the  circle,  to 
the  point  where  pain  will  not  be  veiled  or  recon- 
ciled, but  will  appear  in  tremendous  and  chaotic  in- 

the  question  may  be  suggested.  First,  the  novel — whatever  the 
excellence  of  its  workmanship — may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  less 
fixed  and  perfect  art  forms,  demanding  the  exact  adaptation  of 
means  to  ends  less  imperiously  than  (for  example)  the  drama. 
Secondly,  it  has  rarely  been  so  successful,  and  has  not  so  com- 
pletely justified  itself,  in  the  region  of  romance  and  tragedy  as  in 
that  of  comedy  and  satire,  for  which  the  prose  form  is  obviously 
more  perfectly  fitted. 

*  I>etter  of  5  May,  1798.  vSee  also  Schiller's  reply,  of  8  May. 
(Jena  edition  of  the  Schiller-Goethe  Correspondence,  1905,  vol.  ii, 
pp.  98  etc.) 


202  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

tensity.  Such  a  moment  is  that  of  the  oncoming 
madness  of  King  Lear,  or  that  when  Othello  breaks 
into  raving  before  he  falls  in  a  cataleptic  trance. 
These  scenes  are  pathetic,  in  Wordsworth's  phrase, 
*'  beyond  the  bounds  of  pleasure;  "  and  most  readers 
doubtless  pass  over  them  hurriedly,  awaiting  the 
moment  where  the  passion  is  again  controlled  by  the 
reconciling  power  of  verse, — passages  such  as — 

"  Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction ;  had  they  rained 
All  kind  of  sores  and  shames  on  my  bare  head, 
Steeped  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips, 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost  hopes," — 

or  such  as — 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain." 

Through  whatever  vicissitudes  it  passes,  at  its  con- 
clusion the  tragedy  will  be  found  to  become  metrical 
and  the  verse  increasingly  sweet  and  regular,  the 
utterance  of  the  defeated  actors  falling  into  a  stead- 
ily pulsing  rhythm  that  seems  to  symbolize  the 
underlying  imperturbable  order  of  the  universe. 

The  place  and  function  of  the  metrical  element  in 
poetry  are  discussed  in  a  number  of  passages  to 
which  reference  has  been  made  in  the  previous  pages : 
Wordsworth's  Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads;  Cole- 
ridge's Biographia  Literaria,  chap,  xviii ;  Hazlitt's 
lecture  On  Poetry  in  General;  Leigh  Hunt's  Intro- 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM. 


203 


duction  to  Imagination  and  Fancy;  Watts's  article  on 
Poetry  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica;  Emerson's 
Poetry  and  Imagination;  Gurney's  Tertium  Quid 
(essay  on  **  Poets,  Critics,  and  Class-Lists,"  vol.  ii,  es- 
pecially pp.  162-179)  ;  i\Iasson's  essay  on  "  Prose  and 
Verse ;  "  Courthope's  lectures  on  Life  in  Poetry;  Sted- 
man's  Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry,  pp.  51-55; 
Gummere's  Begi)inings  of  Poetry  (chap.  ii).  Ex- 
tended extracts  from  most  of  these  writers  will  be 
found  in  English  Verse,  pp.  423-436, 

Coleridge's  discussion  of  the  subject,  centering 
about  Wordsworth's  theory  of  poetical  style,  empha- 
sizes the  vital  connection  between  the  language  of 
poetry  and  its  metrical  form.  "  As  far  as  metre  acts 
in  and  for  itself,  it  tends  to  increase  the  vivacity  and 
susceptibility  both  of  the  general  feelings  and  of  the 
attention.  ...  As  a  medicated  atmosphere,  or  as  wine 
during  animated  conversation.  .  .  .  Metre  in  itself  is 
simply  a  stimulant  of  the  attention,  and  therefore  ex- 
cites the  question.  Why  is  the  attention  to  be  thus 
stimulated  ?  Now  the  question  cannot  be  answered  by 
the  pleasure  of  the  metre  itself ;  for  this  we  have  shown 
to  be  conditional,  and  dependent  on  the  appropriateness 
of  the  thoughts  and  expressions  to  which  the  metrical 
form  is  superadded.  .  .  .  Metre,  therefore,  having 
been  connected  with  poetry  most  often,  and  by  a  pecu- 
liar fitness,  whatever  else  is  combined  with  metre 
must,  though  it  be  not  itself  essentially  poetic,  have 
nevertheless  some  property  in  common  with  poetry,  as 
an  intermedium  of  affinity." 

Gurney's  discussion  of  the  pleasurable  elements  in 
verse  rhythm  is  of  no  little  interest  and  suggestiveness. 
"  When,  as  in  verse,  the  sounds  are  pointedly  addressed 
both  to  the  ear  and  the  understanding,  the  rarity  of 
the  combination  of  aspects  contributes  a  strain  of  feel- 


204  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ing  partly  akin  to  that  with  which  we  follow  an  exhib- 
ition of  skill,  and  partly  to  that  with  which  we  receive 
an  unexpected  gratuity.  .  .  .  Rhythm  perpetually  trans- 
figures the  poetical  expression  of  an  idea,  but  makes 
the  existence  of  that  expression  possible.  .  .  . 
Language,  which  in  prose  does  little  more  than  transmit 
thought,  like  clear  glass,  becomes — even  as  that  be- 
comes— by  art's  adjustments  and  the  moulding  of  a 
measured  form,  a  lens,  where  the  thought  takes  fire 
as  it  passes.  ...  It  is  a  sense  of  combined  parts,  and 
their  indispensableness  one  to  another,  which  gives  us 
a  sense  of  permanence  in  an  arch  as  compared  with  a 
casual  heap  of  stones ;  it  is  a  similar  indispensableness 
which  gives  to  metrical  language  an  air  of  perma- 
nence impossible  even  to  the  most  harmonious  sen- 
tence whose  sounds  conform  to  no  genuine  scheme."  * 
Masson's  discussion  centers  about  the  proper  limits 
and  distinctions  of  prose  and  verse  as  literary  forms. 
(See  the  passage  quoted  from  the  same  essay  above, 
p.  26.)  His  opinions  on  the  question  as  to  just  where 
creative  literature  insists  on  becoming  metrical  may  be 
illustrated  by  these  excerpts :  "  In  the  first  place,  there 
is  a  peculiar  richness  of  literary  concrete  of  which 
prose  seems  to  be  incapable.  By  richness  of  concrete 
we  mean  very  much  what  is  meant  by  excess  of  im- 
agery. ...  In  the  second  place,  a  certain  degree  of 
arbitrariness  in  an  imaginative  combination  seems  to 
place  it  beyond  the  capacity  of  ordinary  prose,  .  .  . 
sometimes  taking  the  character  of  mere  light  extrav- 
agance, sometimes  leading  to  a  ghastly  and  unearthly 

*  Compare  Lamartine's  lines  (in  Reaieillements  Poetiqiies),  begin- 
ning— 

"  Tout  ce  qui  sort  de  rhomme  est  rapide  et  fragile, 
Mais  le  vers  est  de  bronze  et  la  prose  d'argile." 


FUNCTIONS  OF  RHYTHM.  205 

effect,  and  often  surprising  the  mind  with  unexpected 
gleams  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  For,  though  we  have 
already  claimed  for  prose  the  capability  of  pure  grand- 
eur and  sublimity,  we  must  note  here,  in  the  interest 
of  verse,  that  one  source  of  grandeur  is  this  very 
license  of  most  arbitrary  combination  which  verse 
gives." 

Gummere's  discussion  is  of  special  interest  as  an 
attempt  to  prove  that  from  the  historical  standpoint 
rhythm  is  ''  the  essential  fact  of  poetry," — an  argu- 
ment which  cannot  be  represented  by  excerpts.  His 
conclusion,  based  on  the  study  of  the  communal  use  of 
rhythm  in  the  work  and  play  of  primitive  man,  empha- 
sizes its  social  significance :  ''  In  rhythm,  in  sounds 
of  the  human  voice,  timed  to  movements  of  the  human 
body,  mankind  first  discovered  that  social  consent 
which  brought  the  great  joys  and  the  great  pains  of 
life  into  a  common  utterance.  .  .  .  The  mere  fact  of 
utterance  is  social ;  however  solitary  his  thought,  a 
poet's  utterance  must  voice  this  consent  of  man  with 
man,  and  his  emotion  must  fall  into  rhythm,  the  one 
and  eternal  expression  of  consent.  This,  then,  is  why 
rhythm  will  not  be  banished  from  poetry  so  long  as 
poetry  shall  remain  emotional  utterance ;  for  rhythm  is 
not  only  sign  and  warrant  of  a  social  contract  stronger, 
deeper,  vaster,  than  any  fancied  by  Rousseau,  but  it  is 
the  expression  of  a  human  sense  more  keen  even  than 
the  fear  of  devils  and  the  love  of  gods — the  sense 
and  sympathy  of  kind." 

Finally,  an  explanation  of  the  fitness  of  verse  for 
poetic  expression  somewhat  different  from  anv  previ- 
ously suggested,  is  that  of  Professor  F.  N.  Scott,  in  a 
paper  on  "  The  Most  Fundamental  Differentia  of 
Poetry  and  Prose,"  in  the  Publications  of  the  Modern 
Language  Association,   vol.   xix,  p.   250.     With   the 


2o6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


I 


fundamental  distinction  (cited  in  chapter  i,  above)  that 
prose  is  primarily  communicative,  poetry  expressive, 
Professor  Scott  adduces  evidence  to  show  that  rhyth-'^S^*> 
mical  form  is  the  natural  vehicle  for  expressive  utter- 
ance, as  distinguished  from  the  broken  form  of  com- 
municative utterance,  examples  being  drawn  from  the 
utterances  of  animals  and  children.  The  conclusion 
is :  "  We  may  therefore  say  that  the  earliest  communi- 
cative utterance  was  characterized  by  two  main  feat- 
ures :  ( I )  It  had  a  swaying,  fluctuating  movement  of  a 
seemingly  irregular  kind;  (2)  it  displayed  cumulative 
intensity  or  climax,  conjoined  with  diminishing  in- 
tensity or  cadence.  These,  I  need  hardly  say,  are  the 
characteristics  of  prose  in  all  languages.  On  the  other 
hand,  in  the  expressive  type  of  speech  the  individual  is 
busy  primarily  with  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings. 
.  .  .  Under  such  circumstances  it  is  possible  for  the 
rhythm  to  be  shaped  by  purely  physiological  or  psycho- 
logical causes.  Thus  expressive  utterance  falls  natur- 
ally into  a  fairly  regular  series  subject  to  changes  in 
tempo  and  pitch  corresponding  to  the  successive  moods 
of  the  speaker.  .  .  .  The  chief  characteristic  of  expres- 
sive utterance  is  this — that  it  consists  of  brief  units  of 
approximately  equal  length  so  arranged  as  to  constitute 
a  regular  rhythmical  series.  This  is  the  chief  formal 
characteristic  of  poetry  in  all  languages."  (pp.  262^ 
263.) 

Before  leaving  the  general  study  of  the  subject 
of  verse  as  rhythmical  sound,  it  remains  to  inquire 
„     ,    ,  whether   there   are  not   other  qualities 

Non-rnytiim-  .  ^ 

ical  elements  of  of  SOUnd  than  thoSe  Strictly  character- 
verse  form,  .g^j^  q£  rhythm,  which  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  the  external  organization  of  poetry. 


TONE-QUALITY.  207 

Rhythm  being  formed  by  the  elements  that  go 
to  form  stress  and  quantity,  there  are  two  other 
elements  which  theoretically  might  be  concerned, — 
those  of  pitch  and  of  tone-quality.  Differences  of 
pitch  may,  as  we  have  seen,  sometimes  be  associated 
with  differences  of  stress  in  a  fashion  peculiarly 
characteristic  of  verse;*  but  in  general  they  are  of 
course  used  in  verse  only  as  they  are  used  in  prose, 
for  the  purpose  of  indicating  varieties  of  meaning — 
grammatical  and  rhetorical  relationships  of  w^ords. 
Pitch  has  therefore  no  part  of  its  own  to  play  in  the 
organization  of  verse.  With  tone-quality  we  have 
to  concern  ourselves  somewhat  more. 

Differences  of  tone-quality,  In  our  speech,  so  far 
as  they  are  not  characteristic  of  individual  voice 
utterance,  amount  simply  to  the  difYer- 

-  ,  ,  .      Tone-quality. 

ences  m  vowel  and  consonant  sounds  J 

which  go  to  make  up  our  words.  These  vowel  and 
consonant  sounds  are  of  course  never  altered  in 
verse  from  their  natural  position  or  pronunciation 
as  found  in  prose;  but  the  writer  of  verse  exer- 
cises more  care  in  selecting  words  \\\i\\  reference  to 
them  than  the  writer  of  prose.  We  have  already 
seen  an  example  of  this,  in  connection  with 
rhythm,  in  the  fact  that  vowels  which  are  easily 
prolonged  are  preferred  to  bear  the  accent,  and 
that  consonants  which  take  perceptibly  long  time  to 
utter  are  avoided  in  certain  parts  of  the  verse.     Far 

*  See  especially  the  theory  of  Professor  Bright,  cited  on  p.  173  above. 


2o8  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

more  conspicuous  is  the  part  played  by  similarity 
of  vowel  and  consonant  sounds,  most  familiar  in 
the  case  of  end-rime.*  Apart  from  this  choice  of 
sounds  with  reference  to  their  quantity,  and  the 
other  sort  of  choice  which  results  in  the  grouping 
of  verses  by  similar  (or  rimed)  sounds  at  their  ends, 
there  is  a  great  variety  of  more  or  less  obvious 
means  by  w^hich  poets  increase  the  beauty  and  the 
expressiveness  of  verse  through  the  choice  of  the 
tone-quality  of  its  sounds.  For  the  most  part  the 
principles  governing  this  choice  are  in  no  respect 
different  from  those  applicable  to  prose  style  as 
used  by  the  most  careful  writers;  but  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  writer  of  verse  has  the  element  of 
beauty  before  him  far  more  generally  than  the  writer 
of  prose,  and  to  the  similar  fact  that  he  is  more 
interested  in  the  imaginative  suggestiveness  of 
speech  sounds,  we  may  properly  regard  the  matter 
as  one  with  which  verse  form  is  concerned. 

The  subject  of  rime  will  be  separately  discussed 
later,  in  connection  with  the  organization  of  stanzas 
and  other  larger  units  of  verse.  Here  let  us  briefly 
notice  the  less  formal  varieties  of  tone-quality  as 
used  for  the  greater  beauty  or  expressiveness  of 
poetical  form.  They  may  be  considered  in  two 
groups :  ( I )  the  arrangement  of  sounds  with  ref- 
erence to  similarity — a  faint  appearance  of  the  same 
principle  which  is  involved  in  rime:  and   (2)   the 

*  On  this  regular  use  of  tone-quality,  see  chapter  vi. 


TONE-QUALITY.  209 

choice  of  sounds  for  their  imaginative  suggestive- 
ness  in  connection  with  the  idea  or  the  emotion  to 
be  represented. 

The  most  conspicuous  examples  of  the  first  type 
are   found   in  the  repetition  of  initial  consonants, 
called  alliteration.     This  means  of  link- 
ing together  different  parts  of  verses,   fj^]^*^"^ 
which   in  the  early  period   of  English 
verse  was  used  regularly  as  a  structural  element, 
has   been  a   favorite   practice   of  our  poets   in   al- 
most  every   age.      In   modern   poetry,   when   used 
with    approximate   regularity    or   with    great   con- 
spicuousness,  it  is  regarded  as  a  blemish;  but  its 
subtle  and  skilful  use  is  a  part  of  the  verse  style  of 
most,  if  not  all,    important    poets.      Verses    like 
these, — 

"  With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain," 

"  A   mighty    fountain    momently    was   forced," 

"  Dreamland  lies  forlorn  of  light," 

"  Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet," 

"  Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames," 

"  Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or 

stop," 
"  As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels," 
"  Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor," 
"  A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings," — 

all  show  the  endless  charm  of  these  parallel  sounds, 
sometimes  hidden  in  the  less  emphatic  portions  of 
the  verse,  sometimes  setting  off  its  chief  syllables. 


210  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Less  notable,  but  by  no  means  slight,  is  the  part 
played  by  the  repetition  of  vowel  sounds,  called 
assonance.  Here  it  is  usually  the  stressed  syllables 
which  are  linked  together  and  made  even  more 
emphatic  than  by  stress  alone;  similarity  of  vowels 
in  unaccented  syllables  will  hardly  be  noticed.  Be- 
cause of  this  greater  conspicuousness  of  assonance 
it  would  seem  to  be  found  less  pleasing  than  the 
subtler  sound-correspondence  of  alliteration;  and 
when  intentionally  used,  it  is  more  likely  to  give  a 
definite  tone  or  mood  to  the  whole  verse  in  which  it 
appears.    The  following  are  typical  examples : 


"  From   poppies  ibreathed ;    and   beds    of    pleasant 

green. 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen.'* 
"  The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll." 
"  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night." 
"  It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies." 
"  Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain." 
"  To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old." 
^'Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns." 
"  And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea." 
"To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes." 
"  Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk-white  glow." 

A  characteristic  effect  is  also  produced  by  the  use 
of  vow^els  or  consonants  of  like  but  not  identical 
character ;  for  example,  of  open  vowels,  like  long  o, 
Italian  a,  and  the  like,  of  liquid  consonants  (/,  m,  n. 


TONE-QUALITY.  211 

and  r),  or — in  contrast — the  more  ^explosive  conso- 
nants, like  p,  h,  t,  and  d.  For  such  combinations  one 
writer*  has  proposed  the  name  **  phonetic  syzygy," 
— that  is,  the  hnking  together  of  words  by  sounds 
not  identical  but  similar.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
in  discussing  the  same  phenomena,  gave  as  an  illus- 
tration these  lines  from  Shakspere,  of  which  the 
linking  consonantal  sounds  are  indicated  in  paren- 
thesis : 

"  But  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown,  (W.  P.  V. 

F.  ST.) 
Distinction,  with  a  loud  and  powerful  fan,  (W.  P.  F. 

ST.  L.) 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away."     (W.  P.  F. 

S.  L.) 

(Troilus   and   Cressida,   I,    iii.) 

Still  more  remarkable,  and  with  somewhat  more 
conspicuous — though  still  incidental — use  of  alliter- 
ative consonants,  is  such  a  passage  as  this  from 
Tennyson's  Enoch  Arden: 

"  As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwrecked  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail: 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead; 

*  Professor  John  Sylvester,  in  T/i^  Lazvs  of  Verse. 


212  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no  sail." 

We  may  note  the  organization  of  consonantal 
sounds  in  these  lines  more  easily  by  setting  them 
down  in  this  fashion : 


s 
s 
s 

bl 
bl 
bl 


.  sh 


St 

b 


s 

• 

1 

d 

s 

. 

s 

p 

w 

h 

p 

St 
St 

h 

The  second  class  of  appearances  of  tone-quality, 

based  on  the  choice  of  sounds  for  their  imaginative 

suggestiveness,     is     obviously     not     a 

I  Sounds  im-  .     , ,        , .  ^-  .  i        r 

1  aginatively  wholly  different  matter  from  the  first 
Lsnggestive.  ,  class,  since  it  involves  the  similarity 
of  consonant  and  vowel  sounds  in  the  same  way; 
yet  with  this  difference, — that  here  we  enjoy  not 
merely  the  similarity  of  the  sounds  in  itself,  but  a 
certain  appropriateness  in  the  sounds  to  the  senti- 
ment  represented.     The  simplest  instance   of  this 


TONE-QUALITY.  213 

is  the  use  of  what  are  called  onomatopoetic  words, 
— words  originally  formed,  or  at  any  rate  con- 
ceived to  have  been  formed,  in  the  effort  to 
represent  descriptively  the  sounds  of  experience. 
These  are  in  constant  use  in  ordinary  speech,  and 
— like  all  these  varieties  of  tone-quality  or  tone- 
color — are  peculiar  to  verse  only  from  its  occasional 
emphasis  of  their  deliberate  choice  and  imaginative 
use.  So  Tennyson  chooses  for  the  war-song  in 
The  Coming  of  Arthur  the  refrain,  characterized 
by  onomatopoetic  assonance: 

"  Clang  battleaxe,   and   clash   brand !     Let   the   king 
reign." 

Again,  in  a  song  in  The  Princess  he  uses  an  extraor- 
dinary combination  of  partly  alliterative  liquids  in 
describing  the  sounds  of  a  summer  landscape :         ^' 

"  The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms,      ^>^    ?  P. 
And  murmurino^  of  innumerable  bees."  ^  V   ^^ 


Yet  once  more,  and  still  more  notably,  in  a  passage 
of  Enoch  Arden  close  to  that  analyzed  a  moment 
ago,  Tennyson  adapts  the  sounds  of  the  verse  to 
four  distinct  parts  of  the  description  of  the  desert 
landscape : 

"  The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branched 
And  blossomed  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave." 


X 


214  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Browning  will  be  found  more  often  using  combina- 
tions of  sounds  which  aid  in  the  expression  of 
irregular,  distorted,  or  grotesque  images.  Thus  in 
The  Heretic's  Tragedy  the  description  of  the  kind- 
ling of  the  executioners'  fire  involves  such  curiously 
sounding  verses  as — 

"  Pine  stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith ; " 

and  in  Caliban  the  picture  of  the  monster  sprawling 
in  the  ooze  of  his  pit  is  enhanced  by  combinations 
like  '*  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin  "  and  "  kicks 
both  feet  in  the  cool  slush."  Milton  often  shows 
an  obviously  deliberate  choice  of  harsh,  as  well  as 
melodious,  sounds,  for  descriptive  emphasis,  as  in 
the  account  of  the  infernal  doors  which  "  on  their 
hinges  grate  harsh  thunder,"  or  the  songs  of  the 
false  shepherds  which 

"Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw." 

In  other  instances  the  appropriateness  of  the  sounds 
to  the  descriptive  mood  is  less  obvious  and  less 
easy  to  explain,  yet  such  as  a  skilful  reader  will 
make  instant  use  of :  examples  may  be  found  in  the 
fairy  speeches  of  Titania  in  Shakspere's  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  the  opening  stanzas  of 
Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence,  and  the  decaying 
garden  of  Shelley's  Sensitive  Plant,  where 

"  plants  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  under  growth, 


TONE-QUALITY.  21$ 

Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew.'' 

Great  caution  should  be  observed  in  the 
analysis  of  such  descriptive  or  suggestive  tone- 
color  as  we  have  been  considering,  since  it  is  easy 
to  exaggerate  the  part  played  by  the  mere  sounds 
of  the  verse,  even  where  they  are  most  conspicuous. 
It  will  almost  invariably  be  found  that  sounds  are 
not  of  themselves  suggestive  of  definite  objects  or 
even  of  definite  moods,  but  that  they  emphasize  and 
fill  out  suggestions  dependent  on  the  meaning  of 
words.  The  same  is  true  of  instrumental  music. 
Mr.  Gurney  (in  an  essay  in  Tertium  Quid)  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  a  foreigner,  wholly  igno- 
rant of  the  English  language,  would  not  be  able  to 
distinguish,  merely  as  sound,  betw^een  the  most 
melodious  passage  in  English  literature  and  an  ad- 
vertisement from  the  daily  paper.  And  Professor 
Lewis  more  recently  (in  The  Principles  of  English 
Verse)  has  adopted  an  almost  excessively  cautious 
attitude  toward  the  phenomena  we  have  been  study- 
ing. "  When  Tennyson  speaks  of  the  shrill-edged 
shriek  of  a  mother,  his  words  suggest  with  pecu- 
liar vividness  the  idea  of  a  shriek;  but  when  you 
speak  of  stars  that  shyly  shimmer,  the  same  sounds 
only  intensify  the  idea  of  shy  shimmering."  The 
illustration  is  admirably  instructive  as  to  the  danger 
of  trying  to  generalize  on  the  subject  of  the  sug- 
gestive power  of  particular  sounds;  yet  surely  to 


2i6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

say  that  the  alliteration  merely  emphasises  the 
meaning  of  the  words  is  to  err  on  the  other  side. 
Both  ''  shriek  "  and  *'  shimmer  "  are  essentially  de- 
scriptive words;  apart  from  their  meaning,  they 
convey  no  definite  ideas,  but  when  one  understands 
what  particular  type  of  sound  or  movement  the 
"  sh "  is  intended  for  the  moment  to  suggest,  it 
has  its  owm  characteristic  power  of  suggesting  that 
sound  or  movement.  And  the  other  sounds  in  these 
two  words  do  very  much  to  make  their  different 
meanings  clear  to  the  imagination.  Long  ago  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson  was  the  skeptic,  for  his  time,  as  to 
the  power  of  sound-values  in  descriptive  poetry, 
not  even  admitting  that  Milton's  famous  line — 

"  Wallowing  unwieldy,  enormous  in  their  gait " — 

could  be  said  by  its  sound  to  represent  the  ''  corporal 
bulk"  of  the  leviathans;  for,  said  he,  "sound  can 
resemble  nothing  but  sound."  On  the  contrary, 
nothing  is  more  obvious  and  more  important  than 
the  power  of  sound  to  suggest  color,  movement,  and 
mood;  yet  it  is  of  course  true  that  the  sounds  of 
Milton's  line  do  not  of  themselves  describe  the 
leviathan's  bulk;  they  merely  suggest  it  to  the  im- 
agination in  a  peculiarly  vivid  manner.*  So  every- 
where the  effect  of  the    sound-quality    is    not    to 

*  In  the  same  connection  Dr.  Johnson  brought  together  three 
Latm  verses  where  the  unusual  appearance  of  a  monosyllable  at  the 
end  of  the  hexameter  line  had  been  noted  by  the  critics  as  of 
suggestively  descriptive  value  : 


TONE-QUALITY.  21/ 

convey  definite  ideas,  but  to  fit  itself  to  those  in- 
volved in  the  meaning  or  the  mood  of  the  passage. 
Such  phenomena  as  those  considered  under  the 
two  heads  discussed  in  the  foregoing  pages — the 
arrangement  of  sounds  with  reference  to 

•1      •  111-  r  1       Beauty  or 

smiilarity,  and  the  choice  of  sounds  melody  in 
for  their  imaginative  suggestiveness  or  ^^rse  sounds. 
appropriateness — are  the  most  conspicuous  and  in- 
teresting, as  well  as  those  most  consciously  used,  in 
the  perfecting  of  verse  form.  Yet  it  would  perhaps 
be  safe  to  say  that  still  more  important  are  the  less 
obvious  and  less  consciously  arranged  sequences  of 
sound-quality  which  perpetually  give  color  to  the 
sounds  of  good  poetry.  The  term  melody  is  com- 
monly used  of  the  effect  produced  by  these 
sequences,  since  the  pleasure  derived  from  the 
sounds  of  the  verse  is  felt  to  be  analogous  to  that 
derived  from  the  modulations  of  a  tune.  ''  Orches- 
tration "  would  perhaps  be  a  more  accurately  figur- 
ative expression.  The  poet  chooses  the  sounds  of 
his  words  as  the  composer  arranges  for  the  use  of 
the  orchestral  instruments  of  different  quality   (or 

"  Vertitur  interea  coelum,  et  ruit  oceano  nox." 

"  Sternitur,  exanimisque  tremens  procumbit  humi  bos." 

"  Parturiunt  montes  ;  nascetur  ridiculus  mus." 

It  would  be  a  strange  conformity,  said  Johnson,  between  "  the 
sudden  succession  of  night  to  day,  the  fall  of  an  ox  under  a  blow, 
and  the  birth  of  a  mouse  from  a  mountain  "  (Rambler,  No.  94).  Yet 
it  is  perfectly  clear  that  in  each  case  there  is  the  element  of  abrupt 
action  to  be  described,  and  that  this  is  imaginatively  vivified  by  the 
unexpected  emphatic  monosyllable. 


2i8  ^f^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

the  different  stops  of  the  organ),  quite  apart  from 
melody  and  rhythm.  Only  here,  as  elsewhere,  he 
is  not  free  in  his  choice,  but  must  at  the  same 
time  choose  the  sounds  which  are  already  fitted  to 
express  his  meaning  and  to  fall  into  the  dominant 
rhythm.  Words  will  therefore  rarely  be  chosen 
primarily  for  their  tone-quality,  and  the  attainment 
of  beauty  in  this  direction  will  be  more  often  the  re- 
sult of  genius  or  inspiration  than  of  deliberation. 
From  this  standpoint  reappears,  then,  the  wonderful 
complexity  of  the  art  of  the  poet.  For  even  if  verse 
be  made  to  express  adequate  thought  and  genuine 
emotion,  and  in  addition  be  fitted  to  accurate  and 
pleasing  rhythm,  there  still  remains  the  element  of 
beauty  of  sound,  to  distinguish  the  product  of  the 
mere  prentice  workman  from  that  of  the  master. 

Interesting  discussions  of  tone-quality  in  v-^rse  will 
be  found  in  Guest's  English  Rhythms,  chap,  ii ;  Lanier's 
Science  of  English  Verse,  Part  iii ;  Corson's  Primer  of 
English  Verse,  chap,  ii ;  Edmund  Gurney's  Tertium 
Quid  and  The  Power  of  Sound;  G.  L.  Raymond's 
Poetry  as  a  Representative  Art  and  Rhythm  and  Har- 
mony in  Poetry  and  Music;  Stevenson's  essay  on 
*'  Some  Technical  Elements  of  Style  in  Literature ;" 
Grant  Allen's  Physiological  Esthetics;  A.  H.  Tol- 
man's  Hamlet  and  Other  Essays.  See  also  English 
Verse,  pp.  135-147.  Professor  Tolman's  essay,  on 
"  The  Symbolic  Value  of  English  Sounds,"  contains 
a  particularly  definite  account  of  the  various  vowel 
sounds  with  reference  to  their  emotional  suggestive- 
ness,  based  on  this  table: 


TONE-QUALITY. 

i  as  in  little 

i  as  in  I 

GO  as  in  wood 

e    "      met 

u    "     due 

ow    "     cow 

a    "      mat 

a    "     what 

o       "     gold 

e    "      mete 

a    "     father 

oo     "     gloom 

ai  "      fair 

oi  "     boil 

aw    "     awe 

a    "     mate 

u    "     but 

219 


y 


■■K 


"  The  sounds  at  the  beginning  of  this  scale  are  es- 
pecially fitted  to  express  uncontrollable  joy  and  de- 
light, gayety,  triviality,  rapid  movement,  brightness, 
delicacy,  and  physical  littleness ;  the  sounds  at  the 
end  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  express  horror,  solem- 
nity, awe,  deep  grief,  slowness  of  motion,  darkness, 
and  extreme  or  oppressive  greatness  of  size.  .  .  .  The 
vowels  have  been  arranged,  on  the  whole,  in  accord- 
ance with  what  is  called  natural,  or  inherent  pitch. 
.  .  .  The  sounds  at  the  beginning  of  the  list  have 
a  natural  high  pitch ;  the  ideas  and  feelings  which 
find  their  most  fitting;-  expression  through  these 
vowels  are  those  which  all  elocutionists  would  ex- 
press by  the  use  of  a  high  pitch.  The  sentiments 
that  are  assigned  to  the  vowels  of  low  natural  pitch 
are  brought  out  by  a  low  pitch  in  expressive  reading. 
What  is  more  natural  than  that  the  individual  vowel 
sounds  shall  be  felt  to  be,  according  to  their  natural 
pitch,  the  best  sound-representatives  of  these  various 
feelings  and  ideas?"  (pp.  152-154.) 

Of  a  different  character  is  the  discussion  of  Mr. 
Charles  E.  Russell,  in  an  article  on  "  Swinburne  and 
Music,"  in  the  North  American  Revieiv  for  November, 
1907.  Mr.  Russell  exaggerates,  but  suggestively 
exemplifies,  the  analogy  between  not  only  the  rhyth- 
mical, but  the  harmonic  elements  of  music  and  the 
sounds  of  verse.  "  What  we  call  '  alliteration '  is, 
in  the  hands  of  the  melodist,  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  the  working  out  of  the  principle  of  harmonics 


220  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

contained  in  the  progress  of  the  chord.  .  .  .  Take 
one  of  the  Hnes  that  have  been  adversely  criticised 
for  excessive  aUiteration : 


*  To  the  low,  last  edge  of  the  long,  lone  land/ 

*  Low/  *  long  *  and  *  lone '  are  really  related  minor 
chords  based  upon  principles  familiar  to  most  students 
of  music.  .  .  .  Another  pertinent  illustration  of 
jchord  values  that  will  occur  instantly  to  all  Swin- 
burnians  is  the  line  in  Lans  Veneris, 

*  The  wind's  wet  wings  and  fingers  drip  with  rain/ 

where  the  base  of  the  chords  may  be  regarded  as  the 
sound  of  W;  the  changing  vowels  supply  the  other 
notes,  and  the  effects  are  identical  with  the  changed 
chords  in  a  dominant  key  in  music,  a  device  equally 
reasonable  in  poetry." 

Compare  the  similar  remarks  of  Guyau,  quoted  on 
p.  300  below. 


CHAPTER  V. 


ENGLISH   METRES. 


Thus  far  we  have  considered  those  aspects  of 
the  external  form  of  poetry  which  are  fundamental 
in  character,  especially  the  way  in  which  the  sounds 
of  the  English  language  adapt  themselves  to  rhyth- 
mical form,  and  the  reasons  why  this  rhythmical 
form  is  adapted  to  the  imaginative  ends  of  poetry. 
It  remains  to  take  up  more  in  detail  the  different 
forms  of  metre  which  English  poetry  actually  pre- 
sents, the  elements  into  which  they  may  be  sepa- 
rated, the  means  by  which  they  may  most  conveni- 
ently be  described,  and  the  variations  from  their 
typical  forms  which  increase  both  the  complexity 
and  the  beauty  of  our  poetical  rhythms. 

It  has  already  appeared  that  metre  differs  from 
mere  rhythm  in  that  it  persists  with  some  continuity 
and  divides  itself  into  regular  groups  of 
those  time-intervals,  marked  by  stresses,   ^7°  ,^^^*^ 
of    which    the    basic    rhythm    is    com- 
posed.   These  groups,  or  larger  units  of  the  metre, 
are   commonly   called  verses.     We  have,   then,   as 
the  two  principal  elements  of  metre  the  rhythmi- 
cal unit,  most  often  called  a  foot,  and  the  larger 

221 


222  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

unit  made  up  of  a  number  of  feet  so  grouped  as  to 
form  a  verse. 

Both  these  units  of  rhythmical  time  are  of  course 
filled  up  by  syllables,  and  the  usaere  of 

The  foot.  \  u   A     •       ii    •     ^u 

our  verse  has  resulted  m  nxmg  the 
normal  number  of  syllables  which  in  any  given 
metre  go  to  compose  them.  In  a  sense  this  is 
only  an  incidental  fact,  since,  as  we  have  seen, 
rhythm  does  not  require  a  fixed  number  of  sounds, 
but  only  that  those  sounds  shall  maintain  fixed 
relations  of  stress  and  time;  and  at  any  time  a 
verse  may  be  found  actually  to  vary  from  its  char- 
acteristic number  of  syllabic  parts.  But  in  modern 
English  verse  the  number  has  tended  to  become 
so  fixed  that  it  forms  a  convenient  basis  for  de- 
scribing and  classifying  both  verses  and  feet. 
Thus  we  call  some  metres  dissyllabic,  because 
they  are  normally  divisible  into  feet  of  two  syl- 
lables, and  others  trisyllabic,  because  they  are 
normally  divisible  into  feet  of  three  syllables. 
In  actual  usage,  then,  the  term  ''  foot  "  stands  for 
the  blending  of  two  different  entities,  or  for  either 
alone:  the  time-interval  which  is  the  unit  of  the 
rhythm,  and  the  group  of  syllables  which  normally 
fill  that  time-interval.  Certain  names,  borrowed 
originally  from  Greek  and  Latin  prosody  (in  which 
they  mean  something  quite  different  from  what  they 
mean  for  English  verse),  are  applied  to  the  foot, 
according  to  the  number  and  the  order  of  the 
stressed   and   unstressed   syllables   which   normally 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  l/ERSE, 


223 


compose  it.  Thus  a  foot  made  up  of  (or,  more 
accurately  speaking,  filled  up  by)  one  unstressed 
syllable  plus  a  stressed  syllable  is  called  an  iambus; 
a  foot  made  up  of  a  stressed  syllable  plus  an  un- 
stressed syllable  is  called  a  trochee;  a  foot  made  up 
of  two  unstressed  syllables  plus  a  stressed  syllable 
is  called  an  anapest;  and  a  foot  made  up  of  a 
stressed  syllable  plus  two  unstressed  syllables  is 
called  a  dactyl.  Examples  of  these  feet  are  found 
in  the  successive  words  defy,  tender,  cavalier,  si- 
lently. But  it  is  rarely  (outside  of  trochaic  metres) 
that  the  individual  feet  correspond  with  individual 
words,  the  metrical  units  being  more  likely  to  con- 
flict with  the  grammatical  and  rhetorical  divisions 
of  the  sentence  than  to  conform  to  them. 

This  circumstance,  that  the  grouping  of  syllables 
from  the  rhetorical  standpoint  fails  to  correspond 
with  their  grouping  from  the  metrical  standpoint, 
has  led  some  writers  to  question  the  existence,  in 
English  verse,  of  anything  which  can  properly  be 
called  a  foot.  Such  a  group  of  syllables,  it  is  said, 
as 

"  Brightest  |  and  best  |  of  the  sons  ]  of  the  rmorning," 

naturally  divides  itself  in  the  way  indicated;  and 
to  make  the  division  in  this  way — 

Brightest  and  |  best  of  the  |  sons  of  the  |  morning — 

is  to  wrest  them  out  of  their  natural  relations.    This 


224  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

objection  would  be  fatal  if  the  foot  were  considered 
as  composed  primarily  of  the  groups  of  syllables 
which  form  the  phrases  of  ordinary  speech.  But, 
as  we  have  seen,  the  foot  is  properly  to  be  regarded 
as  made  up  of  syllables  grouped  with  arbitrary  ref- 
erence to  the  time-intervals  of  the  rhythm,  and  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  their  ordinary  rhetori- 
cal relations.  Neither  must  the  term  be  assumed  to 
imply  that  the  syllables  of  all  verses  are  actually 
uttered  in  the  exact  time  which  their  arrangement 
into  feet  would  imply, — any  more  than  one  assumes 
that  all  the  quarter  notes,  or  all  the  measures,  of  a 
given  piece  of  music  are  actually  made  to  fill  pre- 
cisely equal  periods  of  time. 

The  objection  just  cited,  and  the  illustration,  are 
from  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  who,  in  the  Appendix  to 
Milt  oris  Prosody,  discusses  the  stress  relations  of 
English  verses  as  the  basis  of  their  scansion  and  anal- 
ysis. Assuming  that  each  principal  stress  is  the  nu- 
cleus of  the  metrical  unit,  gathering  about  itself  the 
lighter  syllables  according  to  their  natural  attrac- 
tion to  it  in  common  speech  utterance,  Mr.  Bridges 
lays  down  these  rules : 

I.  The  stress  governs  the  rhythm. 

II.  The  stresses  must  all  be  true  speech-stresses. 

III.  A  stress  has  more  carrying  power  over  the 
syllable  next  to  it,  than  it  has  over  a  syllable  removed 
from  it  by  an  intervening  syllable. 

IV.  A  stress  has  a  peculiarly  strong  attraction 
for  its  own  proclitics  and  enclitics. 

V.  A  stress  will  not  carry  a  heavy  syllable  which 
is  removed  from  it  by  another  syllable ;  i.  e.,  a  heavy 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE.  225 

syllable  must  be  contiguous  with  the  stressed  syllable 
that  carries  it. 

VI.  A  stress  will  not  carry  more  than  one  heavy 
syllable  or  two  light  syllables  on  the  same  side  of  it. 

VII.  In  some  metres  when  four,  and  in  any  metre 
when  more  than  four,  unstressed  syllables  occur  to- 
gether, they  will  occupy  the  place  of  a  stress,  which 
may  be  said  to  be  distributed  over  them ;  and  a  line 
in  which  such  a  collection  of  syllables  occurs  will 
lack  one  of  its  stresses. 

This  system,  it  should  be  observed,  Mr.  Bridges  does 
not  apply  in  the  same  form  to  the  metre  of  five-stress 
iambics,  which  he  calls  ''  syllabic  "  rather  than  **  ac- 
centual "  verse.  The  whole  essay  is  a  suggestive  one, 
and  deserves  study ;  yet  it  certainly  tends  to  give 
too  little  heed  to  the  essentisilly  tejiippxai.  ,basjs  of 
rhythm,  and  to  confuse  metrical  units  with  those  gram- 
matical or  rhetorical  divisions  of  speech  with  which 
they  coincide  only  in  part.  A  similar  exaggeration 
of  the  element  of  stress,  and  another  attempt  to  find 
a  rhetorical  rather  than  a  genuinely  metrical  system 
of  verse  analysis,  may  be  found  in  Liddell's  Intro- 
duction to  the  Study  of  Poetry.  Similar  in  prin- 
ciple, again,  is  the  effort  of  Professor  Skeat 
(Transactions  of  the  London  Philological  Society, 
1897-98)  to  find  a  method  of  analysis  based  on  "the 
natural  method  of  grouping  the  syllables  around  the 
accented  syllables  with  which,  in  actual  pronuncia- 
tion, they  are  associated."  *  The  systems  of  all  three 
writers  are  so  completely  at  variance  with  that  which 
views  metre  fundamentally  as  the  fitting  of  words  and 

*  Both  this  essay  and  that  of  Bridges,  together  with  certain  verse 
dramas  of  the  latter  intended  to  illustrate  the  practical  possibilities 
of  his  theory,  are  critically  examined  by  Mayor  in  chapter  vii  of  the 
second  edition  of  Chapters  on  English  Metre. 


226  y4N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

phrases  to  a  typical  rhythmical  flow,  the  perpetually 
unvarying  norm  to  which  they  continually  approxi- 
mate, that  no  compromise  or  reconciliation  between  the 
two  standpoints  seems  to  be  possible. 

To  say,  then,  that  iambic  verse  and  trochaic  verse 

are  regularly  composed   of  feet  made  up  of  two 

syllables,  one  stressed  and  the  other  un- 

Significance  of         ^ 

various  names  Stressed,  IS  a  matter  of  convenience,  and 
of  feet.  represents    a    particular    effect     which 

these  dissyllabic  metres,  as  developed  by  usage,  have 
on  the  ear,  but  is  not  a  description  of  their  essen- 
tial rhythmical  character.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  music;  a  composition  each  measure  of  which  is 
normally  made  up  of  three  quarter  notes  produces  a 
different  effect  on  the  ear  from  one  whose  measures 
are  normally  filled  by  two  quarter  notes  or  by  two 
eighth  notes,  though  it  does  not  follow  that  the 
actual  time-length  of  the  measures  is  different.  The 
actual  time-length  of  the  rhythmical  unit  is  a  matter 
which  the  individual  player  of  music  and  the  individ- 
ual reader  of  poetry  determine  each  for  himself  in 
large  measure.  In  music,  it  is  instructive  to  notice, 
there  is  no  distinction  corresponding  to  the  differ- 
ence between  iambic  and  trochaic  metres,  or  to  the 
difference  between  anapestic  and  dactylic  metres, 
because  in  music  the  stressed  note  is  always  nor- 
mally the  first  note  in  the  musical  measure.  In  verse 
we  find  it  convenient,  and  representative  of  different 
metrical  effects,  to  distinguish  between  the  metre 
which  normally  begins  with  a  stressed  syllable  and 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE.  22/ 

that  which  normally  begins  with  an  unstressed 
syllable.  This  difference  in  metrical  effect  would 
appear  to  be  due  to  two  causes :  ( i )  a  verse  seems  I 
to  begin  more  abruptly,  and  to  start  off  with  a  dif- 
ferent cadence,  when  it  strikes  at  once  the  princi- 
pally stressed  syllable  of  a  word  or  sentence,  than 
when  it  strikes  that  syllable  only  after  one  bearing 
little  or  no  stress;  and  (2)  owing  to  the  fact  that  / 
dissyllabic  English  words  are  far  more  commonly 
stressed  on  the  first  syllable  than  on  the  second, 
verse  of  the  former  type  will  permit  a  far  more 
constant  conformity  between  the  separate  words 
and  the  rhythmical  units — as  in  the  line 

"  Maiden,  |  crowned  with  |  glossy  |  blackness  " — 

than  in  the  verse  of  the  latter  type.    But  this  distinc- 
tion is,  after  all,  a  superficial  one,  depending  not  on  ^ 
the  nature  of  the  rhythm  concerned  but  on  where  we 
begin  to  count  or  measure  it.    Such  verse  as 

"  Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair  " 

has  the  same  rhythm  whether  we  think  of  it  as 
iambic  verse  with  the  first  syllable  missing,  or 
trochaic  verse  with  the  last  syllable  missing.  Such  a 
verse  as 

"  We  met  an  host  and  quelled  it " 

has  the  same  rhythm  whether  we  think  of  it  as 
iambic  verse  with  an  extra  syllable  at  the  end,  or 


228  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

trochaic  verse  with  an  extra  syllable  at  the  begin- 
ning.    Such  a  verse  as 

"  Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  " 

has  the  same  rhythm  whether  we  think  of  it  as 
dactylic,  with  the  last  two  syllables  missing,  or 
anapestic  with  the  first  two  syllables  missing. 

We  may  illustrate  the  same  fact  by  combining  a  bit 
of  iambic  metre  with  one  unquestionably  trochaic, 
simply  by  providing  a  connecting  syllable,  and  making 
the  rhythm  continuous : 

*'  To  live,  and  see  her  learn,  and  learn  by  her ;  and  so 
to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist." 

The  first  verse  ends  at  the  semicolon ;  the  second 
begins  with  "so"  and  is  trochaic  (from  Browning's 
One  Word  More)  ;  but  when  the  two  are  put  together 
in  this  way,  the  second  verse,  beginning  with  ''  and," 
becomes  iambic  instantly — though  of  course  without 
changing  its  rhythmical  nature — and  the  last  syllable 
comes  to  be  regarded  as  an  additional  feminine  ending. 
Finally,  the  same  principle  is  revealed  by  the  fact 
that  one  is  very  often  in  doubt  whether  to  name  a 
trisyllabic  metre  anapestic  or  dactylic ;  the  reason 
being  that  as  English  dactylic  verse  is  nearly  always 
catalectic — that  is,  omits  the  final  unstressed  sylla- 
bles— and  anapestic  verse  is  very  freely  truncated 
at  the  beginning — omitting  one  or  both  of  the  initial 
unstressed  syllables — there  is  nothing  save  the  pre- 
dominating tendency  of  the  poem  to  guide  us  as  to 
what  may  be  called  its  normal  metre. 

The   statement   that   the    fundamental    rhythms   of 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE.  229 

iambic  and  trochaic  verse  (or  of  anapestic  and  dactylic) 
are  not  necessarily  different  is  not  universally  be- 
lieved. Thus  Professor  Saintsbury  (Hist,  of  Eng. 
Prosody,  i,  9)  expresses  the  belief  that  the  rhythm  of 

When  I  the  Brit-  |  ish  War-  |  rior  Queen 
and 

When  the  |  British  |  Warrior  |  Queen 

are  "  irreconcilably  different.    The  base-rhythms  of  the 
two  plans  are  diametrically  opposed,  the  poetical  effect 
is  entirely  unlike,  and  I  can  hardly  perceive  any  con- 
cordat or  compromise  as  to  English  verse  being  pos- 
sible  between    those    who    perceive,    and    those   who 
do  not  perceive,  this  difference."     There  is  no  ques- 
tion, of  course,  that  the  prevalence  of  such  a  verse 
as  that  cited,  beginning  with  a  stressed  syllable,  pro- 
/  duces   a   different   "  poetical   effect "    from   the   more 
!    common  type  of  verse  beginning  with  an  unstressed 
t   syllable.     But  how  the  difference  in  naming  or  divid- 
i    ing  of  feet  can  change  the  rhythm — this  no  one  has  yet 
clearly  shown.    It  is  possible  that,  from  causes  almost 
too  subtle  to  try  to  explain,  we  tend  to  read  trochaic 
metres  with  slightly  different  lengths  of  time-interval 
from  iambic  metres  ;*  but  that  diis  difference  is  neither 

*  This  conjecture  would  seem  to  he  home  out  hy  the  researches 
of  Messrs.  A.  S.  Hurst  and  John  McKay,  reported  in  University  of 
Toronto  Studies  for  1S89  ("  Experiments  on  Time  Relations  of 
Poetical  Metres  ")  according  to  which  the  dactyl  and  trochee  were 
found  of  shorter  duration  than  the  anapest  and  iambus.  On  the 
other  hand  Messrs.  N.  Triplett  and  E.  C.  Sanford,  in  "  Studies  of 
Rhythm  and  Meter"  appearing  in  the  Amer.  Journal  of  Psychologyy 
vol.  xii  (1901),  report  iambs  as  taking  less  time  than  trochees.  The 
different  results  again  suggest  that  the  matter  is  one  of  subjective 
interpretation  merely. 


230 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


I 


necessary  nor  essential  it  is  believed  has  been  demon- 
strated Idv  the  illustrations  given  above.  It  may  be 
worth  while  in  the  same  connection  to  point  out  that 
it  is  also  true  that  there  is  no  necessary  difference  of 
rhythm  between  the  iambic  and  anapestic  measures,  as 
is  shown  by  the  ease  with  which  some  poems  glide 
from  one  into  the  other  without  any  obvious  change 
of  rhythmical  character.  That  large  group  of  metres 
called  by  Schipper  "  iambic-anapestic,"  in  which  one 
cannot  be  certain  which  is  the  prevailing  type,  de- 
pends for  its  right  to  exist  on  this  fact.  Difference 
in  the  length  of  the  rhythmical  units  is  never  absolutely 
dependent  on  the  number  of  syllables  they  contain ;  and 
a  foot  of  three  syllables  in  some  poems  will  un- 
doubtedly be  given  less  time  than  a  foot  of  two  syl- 
lables in  others.  All  of  which,  though  important 
to  the  serious  student  of  verse,  does  not  in  the  least 
affect  the  common  and  correct  impression  that  the 
four  great  types  of  metre  produce  quite  different  ef- 
fects owing  to  the  way  in  which  our  words  fit  them- 
selves to  the  different  arrangement  of  stresses.  This 
matter  is  discussed  with  admirable  clearness  by  Mr. 
Omond,  in  A  Study  of  Metre.  In  speaking  of  ''  duple 
rising  "  and  "  duple  falling  "  metre,  as  he  prefers  to 
call  iambic  and  trochaic,  he  says :  "  These  are  really 
subdivisions  of  the  same  metre.  Our  poets,  as  has 
been  already  noted,  pass  backwards  and  forwards 
from  one  form  to  the  other  at  their  pleasure.  Critics 
have  professed  to  find  different  effects  in  the  two 
types  ;  but  in  view  of  this  interchangeability  such  pro- 
fessions must  be  received  with  distrust.  Others  would 
fain  annihilate  the  distinction  by  writing  both  alike. 
As  in  music  the  accented  note  comes  first  in  a  bar,  so 
in  verse — they  say — the  syllable  of  main  accentuation 
should  always  begin  the  period.     In  itself  thi§  latter 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE. 


231 


idea  is  harmless.  Where  we  place  the  division-mark 
matters  Httle,  so  long  as  uniformity  is  maintained. 
Marks  for  distinguishing  periods,  like  lines  showing 
bars  in  music,  are  mere  aids  to  the  eye.  .  .  .  There 
is  therefore  no  real  objection  to  adopting  this  method, 
if  any  one  greatly  desires  it ;  but  there  are  circum- 
stances which  make  it  less  natural  and  convenient  in 
metre  than  in  music,  as  a  moment's  consideration  will 
show."     (pp.  61,  62.) 

For  practical  purposes,  the  beginning  of  the  verse 
will  be  found  to  be  the  place  where  one 
may  best   look   for  the  normal  metre,   methods  of 
since  it  afifects  the  ear  more  promptly  ^*°^^°s  °^^^^^S' 
than  the  end,  and  is  less  frequently  altered.*    Thus 
the  line 

"  Spied   a  blossom  passing  fair " 

is  best  called  trochaic  verse,  especially  if  one  dis- 
covers that  in  the  poem  from  whicli  it  is  taken  the 
large  majority  of  verses  begin  with  the  stressed 
syllable.  The  omission  of  the  light  syllable  at  the 
end  is  not  unusual  or  striking.     The  line 

*'  We  met  an  host  and  quelled  it  " 

is  best  called  iambic  verse,  because  it  represents  a 
metre  regularly  beginning  with  the  unstressed  sylla- 
ble; and  the  addition  of  a  light  syllable  at  the  end 
of  such  verse  is  not  unusual.    We  may  expect,  then, 

*  Less  frequently,  that  is,  by  way  of  addition  or  subtraction,  while 
on  the  other  hand  it  is  the  favorite  place  for  alterations  of  stress, 
such  9.S  are  avoided  at  the  end  of  the  verse. 


232  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

that  iambic  and  anapestic  verses  will  easily  take  on 
additional  syllables  at  the  end;  they  will  less  easily 
take  them  on  at  the  beginning,  and  will  be  still  less 
likely  to  omit  a  syllable  at  the  beginning.  On  the 
other  hand,  trochaic  and  dactylic  verses  will  easily 
lose  a  light  syllable  at  the  end  of  the  verse,  and  will 
somewhat  less  easily  take  one  on  at  the  beginning. 
To  omit  the  stressed  syllable  at  the  end  of  iambic  or 
anapestic  verse,  or  at  the  beginning  of  trochaic  or 
dactylic,  would  of  course  change  the  whole  char- 
acter of  the  rhythm,  which  depends  on  the  regular 
recurrence  of  stress. 

We  find  it  convenient,  then,  to  recognize  these 

four  types  of  metre,  which  group  themselves  in  two 

different    ways.      Iambic    and    trochaic 

Four  principal  i . ,       •      ,     .  , .        1 1    i  • 

metrical  types,  verse  are  alike  m  bemg  dissyllabic,  ana- 
pestic and  dactylic  are  alike  in  being 
trisyllabic.  But  iambic  and  anapestic  are  alike  in 
being  formed  by  what  is  called  "  rising  "  or  "  as- 
cending "  rhythm,  unstressed  syllables  being  fol- 
lowed by  stressed  ;  and  trochaic  and  dactylic  are  alike 
in  being  formed  by  ''  falling  "  or  "  descending  " 
rhythm,  stressed  syllables  being  regularly  followed 
by  unstressed.  The  two  types  of  rising  rhythm  are 
by  far  the  most  familiar  in  English  poetry,  for 
reasons  which  will  be  considered  somewhat  later. 

It  remains  to  inquire  whether  other  types  of  feet 
are  to  be  found  in  our  verse  besides  the  four  al- 
ready considered.  All  familiar  English  metres  are 
made  up  of  these  four;  but  exceptional  arrange- 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE. 


233 


ments  of  stresses  within  the  verse  are  constantly 
found,  and  it  is  convenient  to  use  cer-  various  ex- 
tain   other   names   in   describing   them,   ceptionai  feet. 
Thus  we  sometimes  find  a  foot  in  which  not  one, 
but  both,  syllables  are  stressed.     In 

"  The  cumbrous  elements — Earth,  Flood,  Air,  Fire  " 

this  is  true  of  both  the  fourth  and  the  fifth  foot. 
Such  feet  are  conveniently  called  spondees.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  sometimes  (less  frequently)  find  a 
foot  in  which  neither  syllable  is  stressed;  as  the 
fourth  of  this  verse — 

"  Who  thought  the  power  of  monarchy  too  much." 

Such  feet  are  conveniently  called  pyrrhics.  For 
obvious  reasons,  no  metre  could  be  wholly  composed 
of  either  spondees  or  pyrrhics.  There  still  remain 
those  compromised  relations  of  stress  which  were 
discussed  in  the  preceding  chapter;  we  need 
names  for  feet  which  involve  secondary  stress  as 
well  as  full-stress  and  no-stress,  but  no  such  names 
are  in  use.  The  general  tendency  to  reduce  our 
metres  to  fully  stressed  and  wholly  unstressed  sylla- 
bles, together  with  the  fact  that  the  secondarily 
stressed  syllable  in  metre  is  hard  to  define  or  per- 
fectly agree  upon,  has  prevented  the  adoption  of  any 
terminology  which  recognizes  the  existence  of  feet 
partly  composed  of  unstressed  syllables.  With  this 
exception,  the  six  feet  already  considered  (iambus, 


234  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

trochee,  anapest,  dactyl,  spondee,  pyrrhic)  will  serve 

for  the  description  of  all  familiar  metrical  phe- 
nomena, so  far  as  they  depend  on  arrangements  of 
stress. 

Certain  other  feet  are  recognized  by  some  writers 
as  occurring  in  English  verse,  and  therefore  deserve 
mention.  The  amphibrach,  a  foot  consisting  of  a 
stressed  syllable^^efween  two  unstressed,  may  be 
called  the  unit  of  rhythm  in  such  a  verse  as 

*'  And  into  |  the  midnight  |  we  galloped  ]  abreast." 

But  a  division  into  anapests,  with  initial  truncation 

^And  in  |  to  the  mid  |  night  we  gal  |  loped  abreast), 

is  quite  as  satisfactory,  since — to  repeat  what  has 
already  been  said  more  than  once — the  phrase  divisions 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  feet.  There  is  more 
reason  for  viewing  the  amphibrach  as  an  exceptional 
substituted  foot  in  such  a  verse  as  this,  which  Mr. 
Omond  wishes  to  divide  as  indicated: 

By  day  |  a  cloud,  |  by  night  |  a  pillar  \  of  fire. 

But  since  "  a  pil-  "  is  a  tolerable  iambus,  the  more  con- 
ventional method  of  calling  the  fifth  foot  an  anapest  is 
adequate. 

Some  writers,  again,  recognize  a  foot  of  three 
unstressed  syllables  called  the  tribrach,  in  such  verses 
as  these :  '' 

From  their  |  pure  in  |  iiiience  to  \  pervade  |  the  room. 
Mista  I  ken  men  |  and  pa  |  triots  in  \  their  hearts, 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  l^ERSE. 


235 


Unquestionably  the  term  is  sometimes  convenient ;  yet 
the  succession  of  four  unstressed  syllables  is  usually 
avoided  either  by  slurring  the  first  two  or  by  putting 
a  slight  secondary  stress  on  the  third, — in  other  words, 
treating  the  foot  as  a  pyrrhic  or  an  anapest. 

Occasionally  the  term  choriambus  is  used  of  En- 
glish verses, — a  foot  made  up  of  two  light  syllables 
between  two  stressed  ones.  It  is  impossible,  how- 
ever, that  such  a  combination  should  take  the  place  of 
a  single  rhythmical  unit;  where  occurring,  it  will  be 
found  to  take  the  place  of  two  feet  in  the  time  of 
the  verse,  and  should  therefore  be  divided  into  two 
feet, — the  number  of  stresses,  as  usual,  indicating  the 
number  of  feet.  In  an  interesting  poem  called  Chori- 
ambics,  Swinburne  has  imitated  the  classical  rhythm 
n:iade  up  of  this  foot: 

"  Love,  what  ailed  thee  to  leave  life  that  was  made 
lovely,  we  thought,  with  love  ? " 

But  to  make  this  really  rhythmical  to  English  ears,  it 
is  necessary  to  treat  it  as  eight-stress  dactylic  verse, 
with  a  number  of  missing  light  syllables. 

Finally,  there  is  a  type  of  verse,  developed  especially 
in  quite  recent  English  poetry,  which  seems  to  demand 
the  recognition  of  a  still  diflferent  type  of  foot,  and  for 
which  the  name  *'  paeonic "  has  been  proposed  by 
certain  critics.  The  paeon  (if,  as  usual,  we  change 
the  elements  of  the  classical  terminology  from 
quantity  to  stress)  is  a  foot  made  up  of  one  stressed 
and  three  unstressed  syllables.  An  example  of  the 
type  of  metre  referred  to  is  this  verse  from  Kipling's 
Song  of  the  English: 

"  Humble   ye,    my   people,    and   be    fearful    in    your 
mirth : " 


236  y4N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

or  this,  from  a  song  by  Jean  Ingelow : 

"  In    the    morning,    O    so    early,    my    beloved,   my 
beloved." 

The  paeonic  foot  may  certainly  be  made  applicable  to 
this  type  of  metre ;  yet  it  will  be  observed  that  there  is 
a  regular  alternation  of  secondary  stresses  between  the 
wholly  unstressed  syllables, — so  that  the  measure 
might  be  described  as  seven-stress  trochaic,  with  every 
alternate  foot  showing  only  a  secondary  stress.  From 
the  same  standpoint,  the  term  ditrochee,  or  trochaic 
dipody,  might  be  regarded  as  more  accurate  than  the 
term  paeon;  both  these  names  being  used,  in  classical 
prosody,  to  describe  a  pair  of  trochaic  feet  of  which 
one  bore  a  stronger  ictus  or  stress  than  the  other. 

It  is  important  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  all  these 
names  of  feet  refer  to  quite  different  phenomena  in 
English  metres  from  those  described  in  classical  ter- 
minology. In  the  latter,  an  iambus  means  a  foot  made 
up  of  a  short  syllable  plus  a  long,  the  matter  of  stress 
being  incidental  and  not  defined ;  in  the  former,  it 
means  a  foot  made  up  of  an  unstressed  syllable  plus 
a  stress,  the  matter  of  length  being  incidental  and  not 
defined.  The  same  distinction  of  course  applies  to 
all  the  other  terms.  For  reasons  discussed  in  chapter 
iv,  the  two  aspects  of  the  term  will  often  be  applicable 
at  once ;  thus  the  word  destroy  is  an  iambus  whether 
the  term  be  used  with  reference  to  stress  or  quantity, 
and  the  word  slaughter  is  a  trochee  from  either 
standpoint.  It  was  this  frequent  coincidence  of 
length  and  stress,  of  shortness  and  no-stress, 
that  originally  led  to  the  adoption  of  the  classical 
terms  in  the  English  sense, — an  adoption  which 
has  undoubtedly  done  much  to  confuse  the  minds 
of  students  of  prosody.     It  has  now  been  so  gener- 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE. 


237 


ally  made,  however,  and  the  terminology  has  become 
so  familiar  in  the  case  of  the  most  common  metrical 
feet,  that  we  can  perhaps  do  no  better  than  go  on  with 
the  free  use  of  still  other  terms,  with  the  frank  under- 
standing that  we  turn  them  over  to  meanings  peculiar 
to  our  own  metres.  The  effort  to  use  musical  notation 
for  our  verse,  and  to  dispense  with  its  scansion  in 
terms  of  feet,  is  in  part  due  to  the  sense  of  incongruity 
felt  by  many  scholars  in  the  English  use  of  the  classi- 
cal terminology.  But  the  musical  notation  requires 
us,  as  is  pointed  out  elsewhere  (see  chapter  iv),  to  fix 
the  time  lengths  of  our  syllables  with  an  accuracy 
which  we  are  hardly  prepared  to  undertake ;  it  pro- 
vides no  means  of  indicating  any  other  stresses  than 
those  regularly  assumed  to  occur  at  the  beginning  of 
the  measure ;  and  it  fails  quite  as  completely  as  the 
classical  terminology  to  provide  a  means  of  marking 
the  distinction  between  full  and  secondary  stresses. 
English  usage  and  English  discrimination  demand,  on 
the  whole,  a  system  based  on  the  comparatively  regular 
use  of  stressed  and  unstressed  syllables  in  our  verse, 
leaving  the  more  complex  variation  of  syllabic  quan- 
tities to  implication  and  individual  interpretation. 

As  for  the  graphic  representation  of  metres,  that 
commonly  used  for  classical  prosody  has,  like  its  terms, 
been  borrowed  for  English,  with  a  corresponding 
change  of  meaning  from  long  and  short  to  stressed 
and  unstressed  for  the  superscribed  macron  and  breve. 
For  secondary  or  compromised  stresses  the  combina- 
tion of  the  two  marks,  which  in  the  classical  nota- 
tion denotes  a  syllable  of  "  common  "  quantity,  is 
serviceable.  The  vertical  line  of  division  between  the 
rhythmical  units  or  feet  is  common  to  both  systems. 
A  caret  indicates  a  missing  syllable;  and  an  extra 
syllable  prefixed  or  added  to  the  verse  may  be  sepa- 


238  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

rated  from  the  adjacent  foot  by  a  vertical  curve.  The 
following  verses  will  indicate  how  this  system  adapts 
itself  to  several  varieties  of  metre : 


A  thing  I  of  beau  |  ty  is  |  a  joy  |  forev(er 
Roses  I  in  heaps  |  were  there,  |  both  red  |  and  white 
Of  some  I  precip  |  itous  riv  |  ulet  to  |  the  wave 
Souls  of  I  Poets  I  dead  and  |  goncA 
I  am  mon  |  arch  of  all  |  I  sur  vey 
AMy  right  |  there  is  none  |  to  dispute 
This  is  a  |  spray  the  bird  |  clung  tOA 
Kentish  Sir  |  ByngAA  |  stood  for  his  |  KingAA 
Tinkle  |  homeward  |  through  the  |  twilight,  |  stray  or  ]  stopA 
or  Tinkle  |  homeward  through  the  |  twilight,  stray  or  j  stop'* 
Apol  I  lo  from  |  his  shrine 
ACan  I  no  more  |  divine 
The  moun  |  tain  sheep  |  are  sweet(er 
But) the  val  |  ley  sheep  |  are  fat(ter 
And  as  |  I  stooped,  |  her  own  |  lips  ri  |  sing  there 
And  auld  |  a  lang  |  a  syne 

If,  however,  it  is  desired  to  reserve  this  system  of 
marking  for  distinctions  of  quantity,  in  the  effort  to 
indicate  longs  and  shorts  for  the  syllables  of  English 
verse,  it  may  easily  be  combined  with  the  marks  com- 


THE  FOOT  AND  THE  VERSE,  239 

monly  used  in  other  connections  to  indicate  full  and 
secondary  stress.     Thus : 


Only  I  our  mir  |  rored  eyes  |  met  si  \  lently. 

But,  for  reasons  already  discussed,  it  is  far  more 
difficult  to  mark  quantities  so  as  to  represent  any  real 
consensus  of  opinion  than  to  mark  stresses.  In  the 
line  just  quoted,  for  example,  there  would  be  legiti- 
mate differences  of  opinion  as  to  the  length  of  the 
second  syllable  of  "  silently "  and  both  syllables  of 
"  mirrored." 

Some,  even  of  those  who  admit  the  existence  of  the 
equal  time-units  of  our  metres,  prefer  to  avoid  mark- 
ing verses  with  foot  divisions,  because  it  implies  a 
mechanical  regularity  in  the  actual  intervals  within 
which  pairs  of  syllables  are  uttered,  which  is  not  war- 
ranted by  the  facts.  Thus  Mr.  Omond  instances  the 
line — 

The  one  I  remains,  |  the  man  |  y  change  |  and  pass  ; 

and  suggests  that  the  second  syllable  of  "  many " 
should  perhaps  be  looked  at  as  "  on  the  boundary-line 
between  the  third  and  fourth  periods,  not  to  be  as- 
signed definitely  to  either."  The  objection  is  in 
theory  unquestionably  sound. "^^     Since  the  foot  means 

*  As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  the  sounds  of  verse  were  to  be  divided 
into  groups  based  on  the  time-intervals  forming  the  exact  units  of 
the  rhythm,  we  should  probably  have  to  begin  each  foot  with  a 
stressed  vowel,  and  divide  thus  :  "  The  |  one  rem  |  ains  the  m  [  any 
ch  I  ange  and  p  |  ass."  This  at  least  is  indicated  by  the  experi- 
ments of  M.  Verrier  (see  the  bibliographical  appendix),  who  found, 
in  making  phonographic  records  of  recited  verse,  that  equal  intervals 
were  indicated  if  measured  from  stressed  vowel  to  stressed  vowel, 
but  not  otherwise.  The  prevalent  confusion  between  the  conception 
of   the   unit   of  verse  as  consisting  of  a  fixed  time-intervai,  and  the 


240  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

primarily  the  typical  time-interval,  and  since  syllables 
are  not  actually  brought  into  regular  conformity  with 
these  intervals,  to  divide  ordinary  five-stress  verse  into 
five  feet  of  two  syllables  each  is  to  fail  properly  to 
represent  its  real  cadences.  Yet  for  practical  purposes 
the  division  is  very  useful ;  enabling  one  to  say,  for 
example,  that  a  trochee  in  the  fourth  foot  is  almost 
never  found  save  after  a  pause,  that  a  pyrrhic  in  the 
third  foot  is  likely  to  be  followed  by  a  spondee  in  the 
fourth,  and  so  ad  infinitum.  No  one  with  any  proper 
understanding  of  verse  will  be  misled  by  the  supposi- 
tion that  in  such  cases  the  fourth  foot  must  be  pro- 
nounced in  exactly  the  time  given  to  the  others. 

The  naming  and  classification  of  metres  is  dis- 
cussed interestingly  by  Mr.  J.  B.  Mayor  in  his  Chap- 
ters on  English  Metre  (chaps,  viii  and  ix).  The 
abundant  illustrations  given  make  it  possible  for  any 
student  of  the  subject  to  determine  certainly  how 
far  the  system  used  satisfies  his  ear.  For  indicating 
differences  of  stress,  Mayor  commonly  uses  the  sys- 
tem (previously  adopted  by  A.  J.  Ellis)  of  subscribed 
figures, — 2  denoting  full  stress  (or  unusually  heavy 
stress),  I  half  stress  (or  average  stress),  and  o  no 
stress.    Thus  : 

Fluctua  I  ted  as  flow  |  ers  in  storm,  ]  some  red  |  some  pale. 

201001  001  12  1  2 

conception  of  it  as  consisting  of  a  fixed  number  of  syllables,  lies 
deep  in  the  nature  and  history  of  English  verse,  and  perhaps  can 
never  be  escaped.  The  former  conception  is  particularly  associated 
with  our  lyrical  measures,  which  are  most  nearly  analogous  to  musical 
rhythm  :  the  latter  belongs  to  our  decasyllabic  ("  heroic ")  verse, 
which  came  into  English  under  the  influence  of  foreign,  syllable- 
counting  metres,  and  has  persistently  maintained  a  fixed  syllabic 
Structure  at  the  same  time  that  it  has  submitted  itself  to  the  rhyth- 
mical laws  inherent  in  the  language.  See  the  remarks  of  Mr, 
Bridges  quoted  in  the  note  on  page  272  below. 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS. 


241 


This  method  (for  a  further  illustration  of  which  see 
English  Verse,  p.  4),  while  entirely  practicable  if  one 
is  content  to  mark  three  degrees  of  stress,  is  open 
to  the  objections  that  it  does  not  suggest  the  phe- 
nomena to  the  eye  so  quickly  and  naturally  as  the 
method  of  dashes  and  breves,  and  that  it  does  sug- 
gest a  mathematical  exactness  of  relation  between 
stresses  which  one  is  ill  disposed  to  affirm.  Still 
another  method,  favored  by  some  critics  (e.  g.  Corson 
in  his  Primer  of  English  Verse),  is  to  use  the  symbol 
X  for  a  stressed  syllable  and  a  for  an  unstressed ;  thus 
describing  five-stress  iambic  verse  as  ^ax,  four-stress 
anapestic  as  4aax,  and  so  forth.  While  sometimes  con- 
venient, this  system  is  more  completely  arbitrary  than 
any  of  the  others,  and — what  is  more  serious — pro- 
vides no  means  for  distinguishing  between  primary 
and  secondary  stress.  For  still  another  system,  the 
curious  student  may  see  Liddell's  Introduction  to  the 
Study  of  Poetry, 

We  have  then  four  prevailing  types  of  metre, 
based  on  four  types  of  foot  as  distinguished  by  the 
arrangement  of  stressed  and  unstressed 

Variations  from 

syllables,    and    may   name   all   common   regular  met- 
metres   by    indicating   the    typical    foot   "^aiform. 
and  the  number  of  feet;  as,  two-stress  iambic,  three- 
stress  trochaic,   and  the  like.*     We  have  also  to 

*  For  obvious  reasons,  it  is  less  satisfactory  to  name  metres  by 
the  number  of  syllables,  possible  variations  in  this  being  constantly 
assumed.  By  many  critics  the  classical  terms  trimeter,  pentameter, 
etc.,  are  preferred  to  "  three-stress,"  "  five-stress,"  etc.  ;  but  these 
terms,  aside  from  the  fact  that  they  do  not  make  the  nature  of  the 
metre  so  explicit  as  the  others,  are  open  to  the  objection  of  being 
ambiguous.  One  cannot  be  sure  whether  "  iambic  trimeter  "  means 
a  verse  of  three  iambs  or  (as  commonly  in  classical  prosody)  one  of 
six  iambs  grouped  in  pairs- 


242 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


recognize  that  the  substitution  of  another  foot  than 
that  typical  of  the  metre  is  a  frequent  occurrence. 
Already  we  have  seen  two  common  types  of  this 
alteration  of  the  regular  rhythm :  where  the  stress 
in  a  foot  is  deficient  (as  when  a  pyrrhic  is  used  in 
place  of  an  iambus),  and  where  the  stress  is  ex- 
cessive (as  when  a  spondee  is  used).  It  will  be 
noticed  that  these  two  variations  are  very  frequently 
found  together,  the  general  level  of  stress  in  the 
verse  being  maintained.  A  characteristic  and  beau- 
tiful example  of  spondee  followed  by  pyrrhic  is  in 
this  verse  from  Tennyson's  Geraint  and  Enid: 

"  O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew," — 

where,  however,  a  following  spondee  intervenes  to 
prevent  the  succession  of  three  wholly  unstressed 
syllables. 

Quite  as  familiar  as  excess  or  deficiency  of  stress 
is  the  inversion  of  an  iambus  by  the  substitution  of 
a  trochee,  especially  at  the  beginning  of  the  verse 
and  after  the  medial  pause;  as  in — 

"  Gorged  with  the  dearest  morsel  of  the  earth  " 
and 

"  Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm." 

Less  frequent,  but  still  very  familiar,  is  the  addi- 
tion of  an  extra  light  syllable;  a  change  which,  in 


METRICAL  yARIATIONS.  243 

iambic  verse,  means  the  substitution  of  an  anapest. 
Examples  are : 

**  Concerns  of  the  particular  hearth  and  home," 


'*  Let  me   see,   let  me   see,   is   not  the  leaf  turn'd 
down?" 

Such  trisyllabic  substitutions,  in  which  the  extra 
syllable  clearly  breaks  the  flow  of  the  metre,  are 
to  be  distinguished  from  those  which  are  so  readily 
obscured  in  pronunciation,  by  slurring  or  elision,  as 
to  leave  the  foot  substantially  dissyllabic.  Thus,  al- 
though the  word  radiance  contains  three  syllables,  and 
disobedience  five,  the  last  two  of  these  syllables  are 
uttered  practically  as  one,  when  the  metre  suggests 
such  compression,  and  do  not  alter  the  iambic  cadence 
of  such  verses  as — 

"  Girt  with  omnipotence,  with  radiance  crowned," 

and 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit." 

The  same  thing  is  true  when  a  final  vowel  precedes 
an  unstressed  initial  vowel  of  the  following  word, 
as  "  many  a,"  "  the  awakened,"  and  the  like.  Again, 
words  ending  in  unstressed  -on  and  -en,  like  prison  and 
given,  are  treated  either  as  monosyllables  or  dissyl- 
lables, as  the  metre  may  suggest ;  as  monosyllables  par- 
ticularly, when  they  precede  an  initial  vowel.  All 
these,  it  will  be  observed,  are  simply  the  natural  li- 
censes of  rapid  utterance,  familiar  in  prose  and  availed 
of  bv  verse. 


244 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


^Cv. 


In  modern  verse,  elision,  properly  speaking,  is  rare- 
ly used,  the  vowels  in  question  being  shirred,  that  is, 
pronounced  lightly,  rather  than  cut  out  altogether.  In 
earlier  periods  such  forms  as  *'  th'  awakened  "  are 
thought  to  imply  a  complete  elision,  and  some  would 
still  read  Milton's  verse,  for  example,  in  this  way. 
The  matter  is  one  on  which  critics  differ  widely,  and 
is  interesting,  but  chiefly  from  an  historical  stand- 
point ;  hence  it  cannot  be  discussed  here.  The  student 
will  find  a  statement  of  one  side  in  Masson's  edition 
of  Milton,  vol.  ii,  p.  215,  and  of  the  other  side  in 
articles  by  Walter  Thomas  in  the  Modern  Language 
Rez'iezv  for  July  and  October,  1907.  Masson  says : 
"  When,  in  the  original  edition  of  Paradise  Lost,  I  find 
flamed  spelt  Ham'd  or  Heaven  spelt  Heav'n,  ....  I 
take  the  apostrophe  as  an  express  direction  to  omit  the 
e  sound  and  pronounce  the  words  as  monosyllables  ;  but 
I  cannot  accept  the  apostrophe  as  an  elision-mark  of 
precisely  the  same  significance  in  the  lines  *  Above 
th'  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues,'  and  '  That  led  th' 
imbattelld  Seraphim  to  war,' — for  these  reasons : 
(i)  Because  the  strict  utterances  tJiAonian  and  fhiin- 
battelld  are  comicalities  now,  which  I  cannot  conceive 
ever  to  have  been  serious  ;  (2)  because  such  contracted 
utterances  are  quite  unnecessary  for  the  metre,  inas- 
much as  the  lines  are  perfectly  good  to  the  ear 
even  if  the  word  tJie  is  fully,  but  softly,  uttered,  accord- 
ing to  prose  custom;  and  (3)  because  I  find  the  same 
elision-mark  used  in  the  old  texts  in  cases  where  it  is 
utterly  impossible  that  the  total  suppression  of  the  e 
can  have  been  meant.  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  then,  it 
is  best  to  assume  that  strictly  metrical  effects  are 
pretty  permanent,  that  what  was  agreeable  to  the  En- 
glish metrical  sense  in  former  generations  is  agreeable 
now,  and  that,  even  in  verse  so  old  as  Chaucer's,  one 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS.  245 

of  the  tests  of  the  right  metrical  reading  of  any  line 
is  that  it  shall  satisfy  the  present  ear."  *  On  the 
other  hand,  it  may  be  observed  that  this  question  is 
not  so  much  of  metre  pure  and  simple,  as  of  conven- 
tional pronunciation  under  particular  circumstances. 
Thomas  especially  emphasizes  the  fact  that  the  five- 
stress  verse,  being  introduced  into  English  under 
French  and  Italian  influences,  was  regarded  as  a 
strictly  syllable-counting  metre  (see  Milton's  prefatory 
note  to  Paradise  Lost,  in  which  he  mentions  "  fit 
quantity  of  syllables  "  as  one  of  the  essentials  of  the 
verse)  ;  hence  that  an  extra  syllable  was  to  be  avoided 
at  all  hazards.  Professor  Lewis  agrees  with  this 
position,  but  holds  that  since  "  to  our  unsophisticated 
ears  the  process  is  often  over-violent," — that  is,  of 
reading  the  verse  with  complete  elisions,  modern 
readers  are  justified  in  reading  it  in  the  modern  way. 
{Principles  of  Euf^lish  J^erse,  p.  33.)  On  this  sub- 
ject see  further  ^layor's  Chapters  on  English  Metre, 
and  (with  special  reference  to  hypermetrical  syllables 
ill  Shakspere's  verse)  Abbott's  Shakespearian  Gram- 
mar. 

In  anapestic  verse  the  opposite  phenomenon — the 
substitution  of  an  iambus  or  spondee — is  extremely 
common.  In  this  verse  from  Swinburne's  Death 
of  Wagner, — 

"Rose  out  of  the  silence  of  things  unknown  of  a  pres- 
ence a  form,  a  might " 

*  So  also  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  :  "  He  intended  that  [the  elided 
vowels]  should  not  count  in  the  scansion  :  yet  though  he  printed 
*  Th'  Almighty,'  etc.,  it  cannot  be  supposed  that  he  wished  it  to  be 
so  pronounced."  {Milton's  Prosody,  p.  50.) 


246  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

both  iambic  and  spondaic  substitution  are  exempli- 
fied. This  exchange  of  trisyllabic  with  dissyllabic 
feet  is  so  constant  in  some  metres  that  one  can 
hardly  do  better  than  call  them  iambic-anapestic* 
Browning's  Prospice,  in  which  there  is  frequent  al- 
ternation of  this  sort, — 

"  When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote," — 
is  a  case  in  point;  so  is  Shelley's 

''  When  the  lamp  is  shattered 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead." 

This  free  treatment  of  trisyllabic  rhythm,  in  respect 
to  the  number  of  syllables,  is,  however,  a  dangerous 
liberty  in  the  hands  of  the  inexperienced;  and  the 
substitutions  are  satisfying  to  the  ear  only  when 
the  regular  time-intervals  are  fairly  well  preserved, 
either  by  the  obvious  length  of  one  or  both  syllables 
of  the  dissyllabic  feet,  or  by  the  natural  interposi- 
tion of  a  pause  to  fill  the  place  of  the  missing  syllable. 
(Compare  the  remarks  on  syllable-length  above, 
chapter  iv,  and  on  the  English  hexameter,  page 
284  below.) 

Related  to  these  alterations  of  individual  feet  are 

more  profound  alterations  in  which  the  whole  metre 

of  a  poem  seems  to  change,  or  to  vacil- 

Metres  cnarac- 

teristicaiiy  late  between  one  type  and  another.  Per- 
vanabie.  \\2i\)s  the  most  commou  sort  of  example 

is  found  in  metres  which  apparently  strive  to  con- 

*  As  does  Schipper,  in  Englische  Metrik. 


METRICAL  yARIATIONS,  247 

form  to  the  dactylic  type,  but  which  (owing  to  the 
difficuhy  of  maintainng  this  type  with  naturalness 
in  English  speech)  tend  repeatedly  toward  the  ana- 
pestic.  Thus  Tennyson's  Rizpah,  which  opens  with 
a  strongly  marked  dactylic  cadence  (the  third  s}^- 
lable,  to  be  sure,  being  omitted  in  the  first  two 
feet),— 

"  Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and 
sea," — 

presently  gives  us  perfectly  anapestic  lines,  such  as : 

''  But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they 
never  would  let  him  be  good." 

A  similar  contrast  will  be  found  between  certain 
verses  in  Maud: 

"  Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace ;" 
"  Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and 
mean." 

The  reason,  of  course,  why  such  variations  do  not 
offend  the  ear  is  that  the  dactylic  verses  are  (as 
generally  in  English)  catalectic,  stopping — like  the 
anapestic  verses — on  the  stressed  syllable,  so  that 
the  change  affects  only  the  opening  measures.  This 
kind  of  flexibility  in  the  trisyllabic  form  is  beauti- 
fully exemplified  in  Arnold's  Forsaken  Merman, 
which,  opening  with  a  marked  dactylic  cadence, — 

"Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below  !  " — 


248  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

almost  instantly  retards  the  inovement  by  the  substi- 
tution of  spondees  and  trochees : 

"  Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
"  Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow !  " — 

later  breaks  out  into  the  dactylic  metre  again, — 

''  Come,   dear   children,   come   away   down," 

and  still  later  alters  this  to  one  completely  anapestic: 

''  She  said,  '  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day.'  " 

Other  poems  forming  interesting  studies  in  mixed 
metres  are  Tennyson's  Revenge,  Mrs.  Browning's 
Cry  of  the  Children,  and  many  of  the  lyrics  in  Maud, 
Variations  of  this  sort,  like  other  departures  of  art 
forms  from  their  types  and  rules,  are  permitted  to 
the  masters,  but  are  not  to  be  imitated  by  the  hum- 
bler workman  ;  we  perceive  their  beauty — as  of  some- 
thing above  law,  justifying  itself — when  they  are 
accomplished.  Even  in  these  cases  it  remains  true, 
as  Mr.  Omond  has  penetratingly  observed,  that 
"  variation  is  successful  only  when  it  brings  into 
relief,  not  obscures,  our  perception  of  underlying 
uniformity."     {A  Study  of  Metre,  p.  75.) 

These  variations,  too,  will  commonly,  in  the  work 
of  the  best  writers  of  verse,  be  used  with  the  de- 
liberate purpose  of  emphasizing  the  passages  in 
which  they  occur,  or  of  making  their  cadences  more 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS.  249 

expressive  of  the  thought.     Professor  Corson  has 
put  the  matter  in  this  way :  ''  The  nor- 

,  ^     ,  .  ,  JEsthetic  value        1  J 

mal  tenor  of  the  verse  is  presumed  to   ofmetricai  ^ 

represent  the  normal  tenor  of  the  feehng  ^^"^^y- 
which  produces  it.  And  departures  from  that 
normal  tenor  represent,  or  should  represent,  varia- 
tions in  the  normal  tenor  of  the  feeling.  ...  A 
great  poet  is  presumed  to  have  metrical  skill;  and 
where  ripples  occur  in  the  stream  of  his  verse,  they 
will  generally  be  found  to  justify  themselves  as 
organic;  i.e.  they  are  a  part  of  the  expression." 
{Primer  of  English  Verse,  pp.  49,  50.)  Illustra- 
tions of  this  principle  may  be  found  in  the  examples 
of  inverted  stress  given  on  page  242,  and  of  such  ad- 
ditional changes  in  the  regular  metre  as  appear  in 
the  following  passages : 

"  The  watery  kingdom  whose  ambitious  head 
Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven." 

(Shakspere:  Merchant  of  Venice,  II,  vii.) 

"There   whirled  her   white   robe  like   a  blossomed 
branch 
Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall :  a  glance  I  gave, 
No  more ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 
Plunged;  and  the  flood  drew;  yet  I  caught  her; 

then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world, 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain." 

(Tennyson:     The  Princess,  iv.) 


250 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


3 


"  A  stump  of  oak  half-dead 
Clutched  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro'  mid  air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the  tree 
Rushed  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  through  the  wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry :  and  crag  and  tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous  nest, 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her  neck, 
And  all  unscarred  from  beak  or  talon,  brought 
A  maiden  babe." 

(Tennyson:    The   Last    Tournament.) 

"  The  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave." 

(Tennyson:    Enoch   Arden.) 

Do  you  see  this  square  old  yellow  book  I  toss 
r  the  air,  and  catch  again,  and  twirl  about 
By  the  crumpled  vellum  covers ;  pure  crude  fact 
Secreted  from  man's  life  when  hearts  beat  hard, 
And    brains,    high-blooded,    ticked    two    centuries 
since  ?  " 

(Browning:  The  Ring  and  the  Book.) 

"  That  plant 
Shall  never  wave  its  tangles  lightly  and  softly 
As  a  queen's  languid  and  imperial  arm." 

(Browning:  Paracelsus.) 

"  So  he  with  difficulty  and  labour  hard 
Moved  on,  with  difficulty  and  labour  he." 

(Milton:  Paradise  Lost,  ii,    1021.) 

In  general,  then,  though  it  may  not  be  possible 
to  fit  a  definite  explanation  to  each  variation  from 
the  normal  rhythm,  and  is  certainly  unwise  to  as- 
sume that  such  variations  are  always  the  result  of 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS.  25 1 

conscious  deliberation  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  yet  it 
is  safe  to  say  that  changes  from  the  metrical  type 
are  successful  and  pleasing  in  so  far  as  they  give 
the  impression  of  being  the  result  of  a  flexible  adap- 
tation of  the  form  to  the  substance  of  poetry,  and 
are  harsh  and  displeasing  not  so  much  from  their 
merely  metrical  character  as  from  the  extent  to 
which  they  give  the  impression  of  being  due  to  the 
difficulty  of  crowding  a  certain  number  of  syllables 
into  a  fixed  metrical  form.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  those  movements  from  one  metre  to  another, 
which  we  have  seen  are  characteristic  of  the  whole 
extent  of  certain  notable  poems.  If  they  appear 
to  be  the  result  of  carelessness  in  drifting  from  one 
form  to  another,  owing  to  certain  natural  tend- 
encies of  our  speech,  then — no  matter  how  pleasing 
they  may  be  in  other  respects — they  must  be  thought 
to  fall  short  of  the  perfection  to  which  the  poeti- 
cal form  forever  aspires;  but  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  are  clearly  the  result  of  changes  of  emotion 
which  seize  upon  both  phrasing  and  metrical  cadence 
and  alter  them  for  their  own  ends,  they  only  exem- 
plify the  marvelous  capacity  of  rhythm  to  give  ap- 
propriate bodily  form  to  the  spirit  of  poetry. 

For  a  suggestive  study  of  the  adaptation  of  metrical 
form  to  intellectual  and  emotional  content,  see  Lid- 
I  dell's  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Poetry,  chaps,  vi 
and  XV. 

Attempts  to  state  definitely  the  limits  to  which 
alterations  of  a  typical  rhythm  may  be  carried  without 


I 


252 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


impairing  its  essential  character,  since  they  rnust  rest 
on  varying  tastes  and  the  varying  practices  of  the 
poets,  cannot  prove  very  satisfactory.  In  general, 
anapestic  metres  admit  of  the  greatest  freedom  in 
varying  the  number  of  syllables,  and  iambic  metres 
of  the  greatest  amount  of  freedom  in  varying  the 
arrangements  of  stresses.  Trochaic  metres  tend  to 
be  decidedly  stable  in  both  respects,  but  are  very  com- 
monly catalectic  (see  below).  Dact^dic  metres  have 
never  established  themselves  in  English  sufficiently  to 
develop  generally  acceptable  rules,  though  in  practice 
they  exhibit  much  of  the  freedom  of  anapestic  metres. 
Early  English  verse  showed  great  variety  in  the 
number  of  syllables  (see  the  remarks  on  four-stress 
verse,  on  page  267  below)  ;  modern  verse  tends  to 
great  regularity  in  the  number  of  syllables  employed, 
with  the  exception  of  the  free  use  of  catalexis  in  tro- 
chaic measures  and  of  feminine  ending  in  iambic. 
Lyrical  measures,  in  general,  permit  less  variation 
from  the  typical  metre  than  epic,  and  epic  less  than 
dramatic  (see  chapter  ii).  Unrimed  five-stress  iam- 
bic verse  (commonly  called  simply  "blank  verse"), 
especially  as  used  in  the  drama,  shows  more  flexibility 
than  any  other  familiar  metre,  and  is  the  best  place 
in  which  to  study  this  question,  especially  from  the 
standpoint  of  variations  of  stress  cadence.  Mr.  A.  J. 
Ellis  discussed  the  limitations  of  metrical  substitution 
in  this  metre,  in  an  essay  published  in  1869,  and 
reached  the  conclusion  that  in  iambic  pentameter 
"  there  must  be  a  principal  stress  on  the  last  syllable 
of  the  second  and  fourth  measures ;  or  of  the  first 
and  fourth ;  or  of  the  third  and  some  other.  If  any 
one  of  these  three  conditions  is  satisfied,  the  verse, 
so  far  as  stress  is  concerned,  is  complete."  Mr.  J.  B. 
Mayor  criticised  this  view  {Chapters  on  English  Metre, 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS.  253 

chap,  v),  and  developed  for  himself  these  laws  of 
limitation:  The  limit  of  substitution  (in  iambic  five- 
stress  verse)  of  trochees,  pyrrhics,  and  anapests  is 
three  feet  out  of  the  five ;  of  spondees  four  out  of 
five ;  of  dactyls  two  (permissible  only  in  the  first 
and  either  the  third  or  fourth  foot).  Yet  he  admitted 
the  propriety  of  an  iambic  verse  of  Swinburne's  in 
which  the  first  four  feet  are  anapests : 

"  Thou   art   older   and   colder   of   spirit   and   blood 
than  I." 

By  implication,  Mayor  also  admits  the  propriety  of 
an  inversion  (trochee)  in  the  fifth  foot;  this  however 
is  an  extremely  bold  license,  and  practically  results 
in  a  wrenched  accent  at  the  close  of  the  verse.  (There 
are  a  few  doubtful  examples  in  Milton,  about  the  pro- 
nunciation of  which  critics  have  disagreed ;  e.  g., 

"Which  of  us  who  beholds  the  bright  surface.") 

This  variation  (inversion  of  stress)  is  always  pre- 
ferred in  the  first  foot  and  immediately  after  the 
cesura.  Its  occurrence  in  both  the  first  and  the  second 
foot  is  bold,  but  familiar  in  Milton, — as : 

"  Universal  reproach  far  worse  to  bear ;" 
"Over  fish  of  the  sea  and  fowl  of  the  air;" 

and  even  in  Tennyson  rarely : 

"  Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life."  * 
While    many    rules    might    be    formulated,    on    the 
basis  of  usage  among  the  poets,  they  can  amount  to 

*  Such  verses  should  probably  be  analyzed  thus  : 


^  ! 


254 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


nothing  more  than  a  statement  of  what  is  actually  tol- 
erated; and  the  reader's  ear  must  be  the  judge  of  what 
is  pleasing.  These  general  laws  may  be  regarded  as 
fundamental:  (i)  changes  of  cadence  are  admitted 
freely  at  the  beginning  of  the  verse,  and  sparingly 
near  the  end;  and  (2)  the  variations  from  the  regular 
arrangements  of  stresses  must  not  be  so  numerous,  or 
of  such  a  character,  as  to  destroy  the  prevailing 
iambic  movement  of  the  verse.  (For  the  most  com- 
mon principles  governing  alteration  of  cadence  in 
other  than  iambic  measures,  see  the  remarks  on  the 
particular  metres,  below.)  It  is  of  course  to  be  un- 
derstood that  more  or  less  marked  quantitative 
change  (adjustment  of  the  length  of  syllables  and 
feet)  is  constantly  going  on,  in  the  effort  to  com- 
pensate for  alterations  from  the  normal  movement  of 
the  metre,  in  accordance  with  the  principles  set  forth 
in  chapter  iv. 

Certain  alterations   of  the  typical   metre,   other 

than  those  resulting  from  the  substitution  of  one 

,    metrical  foot  for  another,  have  still  to 

Trxmcation  and  .,,.., 

extension  of  be  noticed :  they  mvolve  the  truncation 
verses.  ^^  extension  of  the  verse  either  at  the 

beginning  or  the  end.  Initial  truncation,  familiar 
in  English  poetry  of  earlier  periods,  is  a  rare  and 
rather  bold  license  in  modern  verse,  except  for  the 
omission  of  the  first  light  syllable  in  anapestic  metre 
(the  substitution  of  an  iambus).  A  typical  example 
is  found  in  the  second  of  these  lines  from  Milton's 
Nativity : 

"  Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine.'* 


METRICAL  l/ARtATIONS.  255 

Final  truncation  is  said  to  make  a  verse  catalectic, 
and  is  confined  to  trochaic  and  dactylic  metres.  An 
example  is  found  in  the  second  of  these  lines: 

"  You   shall   certainly   come  to  the   fountain 
At  length — to  the  Fountain  of  Tears." 

In  dactylic  verse  catalexis  may  involve  the  final 
light  syllable  only,  as  in — 

"  This  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to," 

or  both  light  syllables,  as  in  the  second  of  these 
verses : 

"  Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care." 

It  always,  properly  speaking,  involves  an  instant 
of  silence  which  is  felt  by  the  reader  to  form  the 
completion  of  the  rhythmical  time. 

An  additional  light  syllable  at  the  beginning  of 
the  verse  is  called  anacrusis,  and  is  equivalent  to  the 
single  note  which  often  begins  a  piece  of  music  be- 
fore the  opening  of  the  first  measure.  It  is  most 
familiar  in  iambic  verse,  where  it  may  be  described 
more  properly  as  a  substituted  anapest,  but  has  its 
characteristic  efYect  (that  of  a  note  on  the  "  up- 
beat ")  in  trochaic  or  dactylic  verse;  as  in  the  third 
of  these  lines  from  Shelley's  Skylark : 

**  What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 
What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see; " 


256  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

or  this  from  Hood's  Bridge  of  Sighs: 

"  Alas  for  the  rarity." 

An  additional  hght  syllable  at  the  end  of  the 
verse  is  a  familiar  variation  in  iambic  and  anapestic 
metres,  both  as  a  characteristic  of  entire  poems  and 
of  particular  verses.  In  ''  blank  verse  "  (unrimed 
iambic  five-stress)  usage  has  commonly  restricted 
this  feminine  ending  to  dramatic  poetry;  and  in  the 
drama  (especially  of  the  early  seventeenth  century) 
verses  will  be  found  in  which  tzuo  light  syllables  are 
added  to  the  regular  metre,  forming  twelve  syllables 
in  all,  but  not  six  feet.  These  terminations  are 
called  triple  endings.  An  example  is  this  verse 
from  Fletcher's  Wild-Goose  Chase: 

"And  being  free-born  maids,  we  take  a  lib(erty." 

The  triple  ending  is  also  occasionally  found  in 
rimed  verse,  usually  with  a  grotesque  or  comic  effect, 
as  in  Byron's 

"  In   small-eyed   China's   crockery-ware   metrop(olis," 

It  should  be  noticed  that  the  terms  "  anacrusis  " 
and  *'  feminine  ending  "  are  sometimes  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  printing,  not  of  real  rhythm.  Thus  in  the 
lines 

"  White  were  the  moorlands, 
And  frozen  before  her," 


METRICAL  VARIATIONS.  257 

the  word  "  and,"  looked  at  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  single  verse  in  which  it  occurs,  is  an  instance 
of  anacrusis.  In  reality,  however,  it  is  the  last  syl- 
lable of  the  second  dactyl  of  the  preceding  line,  and 
should  be  written — for  metrical  purposes — in  this 
way : 

"  White  were  the  moorlands,  and." 

The  true  anacrusis  steals  for  itself  a  moment  of  time 
from  the  natural  pause  between  two  verses.  A  full 
anapestic  metre  with  feminine  ending  gives  some- 
what the  effect  of  anacrusis,  since  a  third  light  syl- 
lable must  be  crowded  in  between  the  stresses ;  as  in 
Scott's  Coronach  (in  The  Lady  of  the  Lake)  : 

"  He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 
He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 
When  our  need  was  the  sorest." 

It  is  more  common,  and  more  agreeable,  to  omit 
the  first  syllable  of  the  initial  anapest,  wdien  the 
preceding  line  has  had  a  feminine  ending, — that 
ending  forming  really  the  beginning  of  the  succeed- 
ing anapest.  So  in  O'Shaughnessy's  Fountain  of 
Tears: 

"If  you  go  over  desert  and  mquntain, 
Far  into  the  country  of  sorrow, 
To-day  and  to-night  and  to-morrow, 
And  maybe  for  months  and  for  years/' 


258  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

There  remains  one  other  element  which  must  be 
included  in  a  complete  description  of  the  individual 
verse :  the  pause.     Pauses  in  verse  are 
) .  'of  two  kinds :  those  which  take  the  time 

of  missing  syllables,  and  correspond  to  rests  in 
1-  music;  and  those  which  have — as  it  were — to  steal 
their  time  from  that  of  the  adjacent  periods  or  syl- 
lables, and  correspond  to  the  phrase  pauses  in  music. 
The  first  kind  has  been  sufficiently  discussed  in  chap- 
ter iv,  and  is  of  course  exceptional.  The  second 
kind  is  of  constant  occurrence,  and  is  commonly 
called  the  cesural  pause  or — more  briefly — the 
ccsura. 

The  cesura  has  two  origins,  one  rhythmical  and 
the  other  rhetorical.     From  the  rhythmical  stand- 
point, it  is  due  to  the  fact  that  a  suc- 

The  cesTira.  .  .   ~  .  -     ,       - 

cession  of  nve  or  more  units  of  rhythm 
naturally  divides  itself — to  the  ear — into  two  smaller 
groups,  which  are  themselves  rhythmical  units  half 
way  between  the  foot  and  the  verse,  and  which 
we  may  call  rhythmical  cadences  or  phrases.  Most 
naturally,  a  five-stress  verse  will  fall  into  two  parts 
with  the  division  after  either  the  second  or  third 
foot;  as — 


or 


THE  CESURA. 


259 


But  it  may  divide  (less  naturally)  in  the  middle  of 
the  third  foot,  after  the  fifth  syllable.  (Such  a 
cesura,  after  an  unstressed  syllable,  is  called  fem- 
inine; that  following  a  stressed  syllable,  masculine.) 
These  cadences  may  be  further  illustrated  by  such 
a  simple  syllabic  division  as  this : 

Te-tum  te-tum  te-tum,  te-tum  te-tum 
or 

Te-tum  te-tum,  te-tum  te-tum  te-tum, 

or  yet  again — 

Te-tum  te-tum  te,  tum  te-tum  te-tum. 

Any  of  these  cesuras  may  be  called  medial,  and  the 
purely  rhythmical  tendency  of  every  verse  is  toward 
a  medial  cesura.  But  the  writer  of  verse  may  vary 
this,  by  arranging  the  rhetorical  phrasing  so  that  the 
cesura  must  come  near  the  beginning  or  near  the 
ending  of  the  line.*     In  verse  of  six  feet,  the  tend- 

*  For  examples  of  this,  see  the  passages  from  Tenliyson  quoted 
above,  pages  249,  250.  The  following  verses,  showing  cesuras  varying 
from  the  middle  of  the  first  to  the  middle  of  the  fifth  foot,  are  all 
from  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  A7«^save  the  last,  which  is  from  Mil- 
ton's Paradise  Lost. 

Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice. 

Speak  out  ;  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  } 

Made  answer  :  '  I  had  liefer  twenty  years.' 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt  and  mantle  clung. 

To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye. 

Were  added  mouths  that  gap'd,  and  eyes  that  ask'd. 

Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know. 

And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

And  bush  with  frizzled  hair  implicit :  last, 


26o  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ency  is  very  strongly  toward  a  strictly  medial  cesura, 
after  the  third  foot.  A  verse  of  seven  feet  divides 
naturally  into  fours  and  threes;  and  verses  of  eight 
feet  break  so  insistently  into  two  groups  of  four  each 
that  they  are  hardly  recognizable  as  a  separate  metre. 
The  rhetorical  origin  of  the  cesura  consists  merely 
in  the  natural  phrasing  of  sentences,  which  are  sep- 
arated by  slight  pauses  such  as  may  or  may  not 
be  marked  by  punctuation.  In  verse  these  rhetor- 
ical pauses  determine  the  metrical  cesura,  since  the 
sense  of  the  verse  must  not  be  disturbed  by  pauses 
for  metrical  purposes  only.  Where  the  pauses  are 
strongly  marked  by  grammatical  or  rhetorical  gaps, 
the  rhythmical  cesura  is  made  to  appear  more 
strongly;  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  appear  as  a  slight 
and  almost  imperceptible  cutting  of  the  verse,  and 
may  disappear  altogether  in  verses  where  the  sense 
is  perfectly  continuous.  In  illustration  compare  the 
gradation  of  pauses  in  the  following  verses: 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way. 
Thrust  in  between ;  but  Arac  rode  him  down. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man. 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to  shade. 
To  the  old  solitary  nothingness. 

In  illustration,  further,  of  the  difference  between 
verse  in  which  the  cesura  is  medial  and  fairly  con- 
stant and  that  in  which  it  frequently  varies,  contrast 
the  two  following  passages. 


THE  CESURA,  26 1 

"  Tis  ours  the  dignity  they  give  to  grace, 
The  first  in  valor,  as  the  first  in  place : 
That  when  with  wond'ring  eyes  our  martial  bands 
Behold  our  deeds  transcending  our  commands, 
Such,  they  may  cry,  deserve  the  sovereign  state, 
Whom  those  that  envy  dare  not  imitate!     .     .     . 
The  life  which  others  pay,  let  us  bestow. 
And  give  to  fame  what  we  to  nature  owe ; 
Brave  tho'  we  fall  ,and  honor'd  if  we  live, 
Or  let  us  glory  gain,  or  glory  give !  " 

(Pope:  Iliad,  Book  xii.) 

"  The  huge  high  presence,  red  as  earth's  first  race, 
Reared  like  a  reed  the  might  up  of  his  mace. 
And  smote :  but  lightly  Tristram  swerved,  and  drove 
Right  in  on  him,  whose  void  stroke  only  clove 
•    Air,  and  fell  wide,  thundering  athwart :  and  he 
Sent  forth  a  stormier  cry  than  wind  or  sea 
When  midnight  takes  the  tempest  for  her  lord; 
And  all  the  glen's  throat  seemed  as  hell's  that  roared ; 
But  high  like  heaven's  light  over  hell  shone  Tris- 
tram's sword, 
Falling,    and    bright   as    storm    shows    God's   bare 

brand 
Flashed,  as  it  shore  sheer  ofif  the  huge  right  hand." 
(Swinburne:  Tristram  of  Lyouessc,  viii.) 

There  is  a  final  type  of  pause,  different  in  some 
respects  from  either  of  those  just  discussed :  namely, 
that   which   occurs   at   the   end   of  the 

T^   •      1-1       .1  •       f  •  The  end-panse. 

verse,     it  is  like  the  cesura  in  forming 
the  close  of  a  rhythmical  cadence,  and  is  usually 
also    like   the   cesura    in    having    no   place    in    the 
strictly  rhythmical  time.    Yet  in  certain  metres  the 


262  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

pause  at  the  end  of  the  verse  is  increased  to  fill 
the  time  of  a  syllable  missing  from  the  full  number 
expected.*     Thus  in  trochaic  catalectic  metres,  like 

"  Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known," 

the  reader  really  perceives  the  moment  of  the  miss- 
ing syllable,  and  may  be  assumed  to  make  a  slightly 
longer  pause  than  when  the  metre  is  complete,  as  in 
the  next  couplet: 

"  Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern." 

End-pauses,  however,  are  commonly  quite  apart 
from  the  rhythmical  time  proper,  and  are  imposed 
upon  the  rhythm  so  regularly  that  (like  the  last 
stress  in  the  verse)  they  are  frequently  a  matter 
of  mental  perception  rather  than  of  actual  expres- 
sion. 

Now  the  rhetorical  phrasing  may  coincide  with 
this  verse-phrasing  (in  other  words,  a  rhetorical 
pause  may  occur  at  the  place  of  the  end-pause  of 
the  verse),  as  in  the  case  of  the  cesura;  but  not 

*  A  curious  extension  of  this  doctrine  of  the  final  pause  as  filling 
the  time  of  silent  rhythmical  measures,  is  found  in  the  theory  of  the 
late  Coventry  Patmore  (see  his  "  Prefatory  Study  on  English  Metrical 
Law,"  published  with  Amelia  and  other  poems,  1878).  According 
to  this,  the  only  standard  or  complete  English  metres  are  made  up 
of  eight,  twelve,  or  sixteen  syllables;  all  others,  properly  speaking, 
are  catalectic,  with  a  regular  and  definitely  measurable  pause  at  the 
end  of  each  verse. 


THE  END-PAUSE.  263 

necessarily.  When  the  poet  desires,  he  may  over- 
ride the  place  of  the  final  pause  by  continuous  phras- 
ing, as  he  may  override  the  natural  place  of  the 
cesura ;  and  the  metrical  division  of  one  verse  from 
the  next  will  remain  unimpaired.  Such  a  failure  of 
the  rhetorical  phrasing  to  conform  to  the  verse  di- 
vision is  often  called  by  the  French  term  enjamhe- 

ment,  or — as  the  term  is  sometimes  paraphrased 

overflozc;  while  such  verses  are  called  "  run-on," 
as  opposed  to  the  ''  end-stopped "  verses  'which 
conclude  with  a  distinct  rhetorical  pause.  The  con- 
trast between  verse  forms  characterized  by  these  two 
types  of  line  is  well  exemplified  by  the  two  passages 
cited  above  in  illustration  of  the  medial  and  variable 
cesura. 

It  should  be  noted  that  run-on  lines  do  not  usually 
conclude  with  a  strongly  proclitic  word— that  is, 
a  word  which  is  closely  connected  with  the  following 
word,  like  a  preposition  before  a  noun,  or  even  an 
adjective  before  the  noun  with  which  it  belongs.  In 
such  a  passage  as  this  from  the  Winters  Talc— 

''This  child   was  prisoner  to   the  womb,  and   is 

By  law  and  process  of  great  Nature  thence 

Freed  and  enfranchis'd,  not  a  party  to 

The  anger  of  the  king,  nor  guilty  of. 

If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen," * 

the  various  degrees  of  enjamhemcnt  are  well  illustrated. 
The  conclusion  of  the  first  verse  is  called  a  'Might 

♦  II,  ii,  59-63. 


264 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


ending,"  those  of  the  third  and  fourth  verses  **  weak 
endings ; "  and  their  questionable  metrical  char- 
acter consists  not  so  much  in  the  fact  that  they  cannot 
be  strongly  stressed  as  that  it  is  impossible  to  pause 
after  them  without  violating  the  rhetoric  of  the  lines. 
This  does  not,  however,  strictly  apply  to  the  ending 
"  guilty  of,"  since  the  following  parenthetical  clause 
("  if  any  be  ")  makes  natural  a  slight  rhetorical  pause 
before  it.  Such  light  and  weak  endings  are  es- 
pecially characteristic  of  the  verse  of  the  late  plays 
of  Shakspere.  The  general  avoidance  of  them  in 
English  poetry  (as  well  as  of  verse  divisions  which 
separate  adjectives  from  their  nouns,  and  the  like) 
means  that  the  tendency  to  make  the  verse-pause 
coincide  with  at  least  a  slight  rhetorical  pause  is  still 
very  strong.*  It  should  be  noted  that,  even  when 
there  is  little  or  no  rhetorical  pause  indicated,  a  good 
reader  may  easily  make  a  slight  metrical  pause  at 
the  end  of  the  verse,  without  dropping  the  pitch  of 
the  voice  and  thus  injuring  the  rhetorical  expres- 
sion. No  matter  how  free  be  the  use  of  run-on  lines, 
poetry  is  not  well  read  when  a  listener  cannot  dis- 
tinguish it  from  prose. 

We  have  now  to  consider  briefly  the  most  import- 
ant types  of  metre,  apart  from  the  elements  of  the 
individual  verse.     And  first  the  iambic  / 

Iambic  metres.  .  1  •  1  1     1      •       1  j 

metres,  which  overwhelmingly  predom- 
inate in   English   poetry.     Two   reasons  are  com- 


*  For  numerous  violations  of  this  principle,  see  Byron's  Cain,    A 
characteristic  verse  is — 

"  Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape." 


IAMBIC  METRES.  26$ 

monly  suggested  for  this  preference:     (i)  the  fact 
that  EngHsh  sentences  and  clauses  always  tend  to 
begin  with  an  unstressed  particle,  thus  making  it 
unnatural  to  open  a  metrical  phrase  with  a  trochee 
or  dactyl;  and    (2)   the   fact  that   English   dissyl- 
labic words — a  large  proportion  of  those  in  com- 
mon use — are  more  commonly  stressed  on  the  first 
syllable  than  on  the  second,  so  that  in  iambic  verse 
the  line  of  division  usually  falls  between  the  rhythmi- 
cal units,   whereas  in   trochaic  verse  it  more   fre- 
quently coincides  with  the  division  between  words 
(see  page  227  above)  ;  and  the  former  arrangement 
is    more    pleasing    to   the    ear.      Neither   of   these 
reasons   would   explain   the  preference   for   iambic    \ 
to  anapestic  metres,  and  this  does  not  seem  to  be  y    \j 
a  preference  natural  to  the  language.     In  the  ear-       qf       t^ 
liest    English    verse    trisyllabic   metres — chiefly    ir-    ^    *S     V 
regular — were    familiar;    and    careless    or    popular         'S,  x\^  * 
verse,  even  when  attempting  the  iambic  form,  al-  L     ^r 


\Sf- 


ways  falls  easily  into  trisyllabic  feet.     It  appears  >    t.  ■ 

that  the  restriction  of  the  great  body  of  our  literary  \  .      f  / 
verse  to  dissyllabic  feet,  and  hence  to  iambic  metres,  ^a     \ 

has  been  due  to  the  influence  of  Latin,,  French,  and  ^i       ^ 

Italian  verse,  and  to  the  consequent  establishment  "^^^/V  ' 
of  a  standard  of  correctness  characterized  by  the  *^^v 

continued  alternation  of  stress  and  no-stress.  </>• 


\ 


It  might  seem  that  the  number  of  dissyllabic  words 
stressed  on  the  first  syllable  is  quite  balanced  by  the 
number    of    combinations    like     "  my    own,"     **  the 


^ 


266  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

tree,"  and  the  like,  which  take  the  stress  in  the  re- 
verse order.  Similarly,  Professor  Lewis  argues  to  the 
effect  that  the  objection  to  trochaic  verse  cannot  be 
due  to  anything  like  the  second  reason  suggested 
above,  on  the  ground  that  iambic  verse  is  not  dis- 
agreeable when  it  happens  to  be  made  up  largely  of 
dissyllables  accented  on  the  second  syllable.  But  the 
example  which  he  constructs  in  support  of  this  state- 
ment would,  for  some  readers,  hardly  bear  it  out. 
Mr.  Lewis's  conclusion  is  that  "  our  low  estimate  of 
trochaic  metres  "  is  not  to  be  ascribed  to  any  peculiar- 
ity of  the  language,  "  but  to  an  innate  dislike  for  the 
trochaic  rhythm  itself."  {Principles  of  English  Verse, 
p.  104.) 

Iambic  verse  is  familiar  in  all  lengths  from  two 

feet  to  seven    (for  specimens,  see  English   Verse, 

pp.    26-44),    but   is    most    common    in 

Four-stress         metres  of  four,  five,  and  six  stresses.* 

iambic  verse. 

Each  of  these  deserves  some  separate 
consideration.  The  four-stress  riming  couplet,  the 
most  important  form  made  up  of  four-foot  iambics, 
is  found  in  abundant  use  from  the  poetry  of  Chaucer 
to  that  of  Scott,  although  modern  poets  have  usually 
preferred  longer  verses  for  continuous  narrative 
poetry.  It  is  a  direct,  fairly  rapid  metre,  well 
adapted  to  simple  narrative,  where  elaboration  of 
thought  or  feeling  and  variety  of  cadence  are  not 
demanded ;  but  its  brevity  unfits  it  for  variety  either 
in  alteration  of  stress  cadences  or  in  the  use  of  the 

*  On  the  limits  of  verse  length,  see  two  interesting  letters  of  Mr. 
Omond's  in  TAe  Academy  for  March  28  and  April  25,  1903. 


IAMBIC  METRES.  267 

cesura;  hence  it  is  liable  to  monotony.     It  is  never 
used  without  rime. 

Scott  defends  his  use  of  octosyllabic  verse  for  nar- 
rative poetry  in  his  Introduction  to  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,  saying  that  it  "  appears  so  natural  to 
our  language  that  the  very  best  of  our  poets  have  not 
been  able  to  protract  it  into  the  verse  properly  called 
Heroic,  without  the  use  of  epithets  which  are,  to  say 
the  least,  unnecessary.  Thus  it  has  often  been  re- ^ 
marked  that,  in  the  opening  couplets  of  Pope's  trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad,  there  are  two  syllables  forming 
a  superfluous  word  in  each  line,  as  may  be  observed 
by  attending  to  such  words  as  are  printed  in  italics. 

*  Achilles'  wrath,  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  goddess,  sing; 
That  wrath  which  sent  to  Pluto's  f^loomy  reign 
The  souls  of  mighty  chiefs  in  battle  slain, 
\Miose  bones,  unburied  on  the  desert  shore, 
Devouring  dogs  and  hungry  vultures  tore.'" 

In  the  English  poetry  of  early  periods  there  is 
an  abundance  of  four-stress  verse  which  one  knows 
not  whether  to  call  iambic  or  anapestic ;  in  fact  it 
is  neither,  but  can  be  described  only  in  this  way, — as 
being  made  up  of  four  stressed  syllables,  placed  at 
approximately  equal  time-intervals,  and  of  an  in- 
definite number  of  unstressed  syllables — usually 
varying  from  three  to  eight — indeterminately  placed. 
Professor  Saintsbury,  though  in  another  connection, 
furnishes  us  with  a  good  description  of  the  efifect  of 
this  (sometimes  called  "tumbling")  verse,  as  "a 
kind  of  drunkard,  staggering  from  tree  to  tree  or 
other  support,  and  caring  only  to  get  hold  of  the 
next  without  calculating  .  .  .  the  number  and  meas- 


4^-) 


268  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

lire  of  the  steps  which  take  him  to  it."  (Hist,  of  Eng. 
Prosody,  vol.  i,  p.  383.)  With  the  structural  element 
of  alliteration,  this  verse  is  found  in  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry  and  in  the  so-called  "  long  line "  of  Piers 
Plozvman  and  other  fourteenth  century  poems.  Later 
(as  in  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar)  it  appears 
as  rimed  "  tumbling  verse ;  "  again  in  the  ballads,  the 
mystery  plays,  and  early  sixteenth  century  comedies ; 
and  in  popular  or  doggerel  verse,  down  to  our  own 
time,  this  four-stress,  non-syllable-counting  verse  may 
still  be  found.  Schipper  quotes  a  characteristic  ex- 
ample from  a  ballad  of  Thackeray's: 

"  This   Mary  was   pore  and  in  misery  once, 

And  she  came  to  Mrs.  Roney  it's  more  than  twelve 

monce. 
She  adn't  got  no  bed,  nor  no  dinner  nor  no  tea, 
And  kind  Mrs.  Roney  gave  Mary  all  three." 

(On  this  subject  see  English  Verse,  pp.  1 51-159.) 
Coleridge  v/as  really  imitating  this  traditional  freedom 
of  our  verse  in  Christahel,  though  he  called  it, 
curiously  enough,  "  a  new  principle  "  to  count  ''  in 
each  line  the  accents,  not  the  syllables." 

Five-stress  verse  predominates  in  iambic  metre  as 

overwhelmingly  as  does  iambic  over  the  other  types 

of  metrical  rhythm.     Various   reasons 

Five-stress         \\2i\t  been  sugs^estcd  for  the  fact  that 

iambic  verse.         ^  °^ 

it  has  thus  proved  itself  our  favorite 
and  most  serviceable  measure.  To  some  it  seems 
to  represent  the  natural  length  of  an  English  clause 
or  sentence,  or  the  natural  distance  betw^een  breaths 
in  reading.  Others  have  emphasized  the  fact  that 
its  length    (as   compared  with  the  verse  of  four 


IAMBIC  METR'ES.  269 

stresses)  permits  greater  variety  of  cadence,  both 
in  alterations  of  stress  and  in  the  placing  of  the 
cesura;  while  the  odd  number  of  its  feet  tends  to 
^  divide  it  into  agreeably  unequal  cadences.  Again, 
since  this  metre  permits  a  variable  number  of  full 
stresses  (rather  favoring  four  than  five,  in  actual 
usage)  and  a  consequent  variable  number  of  light 
syllables,  yet  approximates  to  a  regular  alternation 
of  stress  and  no-stress,  it  combines  to  some  degree 
the  principal  qualities  of  native  English  verse  (which 
was  originally  based  on  four  stresses  and  a  variable 
number  of  light  syllables)  with  those  of  the  more 
?xact  syllable-counting  verse  of  Latin,  French  and 
Italian.  In  all  these  suggestions  there  are  doubt- 
less elements  of  truth.  Whatever  the  reason,  from 
the  time  of  Chaucer  (who  introduced  it  into  English 
poetry)  to  the  present,  there  has  been  scarcely  a 
poet  of  the  first  importance  who  did  not  make  this 
metre  his  chief  form  of  expression:  and  were  all 
the  English  verse  written  in  other  metres  to  be  de- 
stroyed, the  loss — especially  if  we  except  songs  and 
similar  lyrics — would  be  comparatively  slight. 

In  usage  the  five-stress  iambic  metre  appears  in 
two  great  forms;  as  rimed,  in  couplets,  and  in  con- 
tinuous unrimed  or  "  blank  "  verse.  In 
general,  the  rimed  form  is  characterized  ^^^^^^  «°^Pi«*- 
by  greater  regularity  than  the  unrimed  in  number 
of  syllables,  changes  of  stress,  and  constancy  of 
both  medial  pause  and  end-pause;  and,  partly  at 
least  for  this  reason,  it  has  proved  itself  better  fitted 


2;o  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

to  express  precise,  epigrammatic,  and  characteristi- 
cally intellectual  ideas  than  the  other.  Thus  Mr. 
Woodberry  calls  it  ''the  best  metrical  form  which 
intelligence,  as  distinct  from  poetical  feeling,  can  em- 
ploy." {Makers  of  Literature,  p.  104.)  To  this 
rimed  and  fairly  regular  type  the  name  *'  heroic 
couplet  "  is  commonly  given ;  the  quotation  from 
Pope's  Iliad,  on  page  261  above,  is  a  typical  illustra- 
tion of  its  character. 

A  looser  use  of  the  form  appears  in  the  couplets  of 
Keats,  Shelley,  and  Browning.  Keats  especially,  in 
the  Endymion,  uses  so  many  run-on  lines  that  the 
single  verse  almost  ceases  to  be  the  unit  of  the  meas- 
ure, and  the  rime  is  thrown  into  the  obscure  back- 
ground. The  following  passage  (Book  ii,  317  f¥.)  is  an 
extreme  instance,  not  to  be  sure  of  run-on  endings, 
but  of  a  deliberate  avoidance  of  coincidence  between 
the  rhetorical  connection  of  verses  and  their  pairing 
into  couplets. 

**  Within    my   breast   there   lives   a   choking  flame — 

O  let  me  cool't  the  zephyr-boughs  among! 

A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — 

O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs! 

Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 

O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note! 

Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 

O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 

Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ?  "  etc. 

On  the  other  hand,  for  abundant  run-on  endings  see 
the  opening  passage  of  Book  i ;  also  such  passages  of 
Shelley's  Epipsychidion,  Browning's  Sordello,  etc.,  as 


IAMBIC  METRES.  27 1 

are  quoted  in  English  Verse,  pp.  208-213.  Professor 
Lewis,  in  commenting  on  this  free  or  romantic  five- 
stress  couplet,  observes:  "If  you  want  the  Hne- 
structure  to  be  perpetually  threatened  with  sub- 
mergence by  the  flow  of  the  rhythm,  why  should  you 
hoist  a  flag  on  the  end  of  every  line?  The  rime  in 
such  verse  would  be  really  something  of  an  annoyance ; 
for  either  it  would  effectually  distract  your  attention 
from  the  higher  attractions  of  the  rhythm,  or  else  it 
would  itself  cease  to  be  noticed  except  as  an  irregular 
intruder.  One  or  the  other  of  these  effects  the  reader 
will  probably  discover  in  Keats's  Endymion."  (Prin- 
ciples  of  Eng.  Verse,  p.  67.)  He  goes  on  to  point  out 
that  Keats  himself  was  dissatisfied  with  the  w^orkman- 
ship  of  Endymion,  and  later,  in  Lamia,  wrote  couplets 
which,  though  by  no  means  so  regular  as  those  of 
Pope  and  his  school,  are  truly  of  the  heroic  type  in 
their  structure. — It  should  perhaps  be  noted  that  a 
peculiar  license  of  the  heroic  couplet,  especially  as 
practised  by  Dryden,  is  the  occasional  use  of  a  third 
line  (forming  a  **  triplet  ")  continuing  the  rime  of  a 
couplet,  and  very  commonly  containing  six  feet  in- 
stead of  five.  An  example  may  be  found  in  the  pas- 
sage from  Swinburne  quoted  on  page  261. 

In  the  unrimed  form  this  five-stress  iambic  metre 
is  equally  familiar,  and,  while  theoretically  of  the 
same  rhythmical  character  as  the  coup- 
let, is  in  usage  characterized  by  quite  *°  ^^"*' 
different  qualities,  in  addition  to  its  omission  of 
rime.  Most  conspicuous  of  these  is  its  larger  use 
of  varying  cadences,  in  opposition  to  what  we  have 
seen  to  be  characteristic  of  the  couplet; — cadences 
due  both  to  changes  of  stress  and  to  the  position 


272  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

of  the  cesura.*  The  use  of  a  large  number  of 
run-on  hnes,  in  the  blank  verse  of  most  of  the 
great  poets  who  have  developed  the  form,  makes 

*  In  respect  to  the  regular  number  of  syllables,  although  blank 
verse  here  also  shows  more  freedom  than  the  couplet  metre,  it  is,  by 
tradition  and  usage,  surprisingly  regular.  See  the  remarks  on  page 
240  above,  where  it  is  pointed  out  that  this  is  due  to  the  foreign 
influences  which,  for  three  centuries  at  least  (from  Chaucer  to  Mil- 
ton), largely  governed  this  type  of  metre.  Bridges  emphasizes  this 
feature  of  the  "  heroic  "  verse  so  strongly  as  to  put  it  in  a  class  by 
itself,  calling  it  syllabic  verse,  while  other  (particularly  lyrical)  metres 
are  called  accentual.  "  When  reading  Milton's  or  Chaucer's  ten- 
syllable  verse  aloud,  the  occurrence  of  a  line  which  is  deficient  in  one 
of  the  ten  syllables  (and  such  lines  occur  in  Chaucer)  is  extremely 
awkward  both  for  hearer  and  reader,  especially  if  the  latter  is  not 
prepared  for  it.  It  cannot  escape  observation  :  and  if  a  line  occurs 
in  which  there  are  more  than  ten  syllables,  the  '  trisyllabic  foot  '  is 
readily  perceived  ;  so  that  of  every  line,  as  it  is  read,  the  hearer  can 
say  at  once  of  how  many  syllables  it  was  composed,  whether  of  nine, 
ten,  eleven,  or  twelve.  But  he  will  not  observe  a  variety  in  the  num- 
ber of  stresses  in  the  same  way  ;  whether  the  line  have  its  full 
normal  complement  of  five,  or  only  four  (as  is  very  frequent),  or  only 
three,  no  awkwardness  or  interruption  of  rhythm  will  be  perceived  ; 
nor  will  the  hearer  be  able  to  say  readily  at  the  close  of  any  line  how 
many  true  stresses  it  contained.  This  is  syllabic  verse.  Of  stressed 
verse  exactly  the  contrary  is  true.  .  .  Hearer  and  reader  alike  are 
indifferent  as  to  the  number  of  syllables  which  go  to  make  the  line  ; 
nor,  as  each  line  is  read,  can  they  say  how  many  syllables  have  gone 
to  make  it.  But  if  a  stress  be  omitted,  they  perceive  the  rhythm  to  be 
unsatisfactory."  [Miltoji's  Prosody,  pp.  iii,  112.)  These  observa- 
tions are  discriminating  and  absolutely  true,  and  should  be  carefully 
noted  by  the  student.  Nevertheless,  the  difference  is  one  of  non- 
essential details,  which  have  been  wrought  out  by  the  accidents  of 
usage,  foreign  influence,  and  tradition.  Strictly  speaking,  the  rhvthm 
of  an  "  heroic  "  verse  is  not  impaired  by  varying  the  number  of  its 
syllables  ;  and  it  is  only  because,  from  its  nature  and  usage,  we  are 
better  able  to  mark  the  time-intervals  in  this  metre  without  actually 
uttering  the  full  number  of  stresses,  that  we  allow  a  stress  to  be 
dropped  here  more  willingly  than  in  other  types  of  verse. 


IAMBIC  METRES. 


273 


the  single  verse  less  clearly  the  unit  of  the  metre 
than  is  common  in  any  other  metrical  form,  and 
combines  with  the  variable  cesura  to  form  long, 
flexible  cadences,  extending  from  one  verse  into  an- 
other, for  which  the  name  '*  metrical  paragraphs  " 
has  been  suggested.  Typical  examples  are  these 
from  Milton  and  Tennyson: 

*'  Lowly  reverent 
Towards  either  throne  they  bow,  and  to  the  ground 
With  solemn  adoration  down  they  cast 
Their  crowns,  inwove  with  amaranth  and  gold, — 
Immortal  amaranth,  a  flower  which  once 
In   Paradise,   fast  by  the  Tree  of  Life, 
Began  to  bloom,  but,  soon  for  man's  offence 
To  Heaven  removed  where  first  it  grew,  there  grows 
And  flowers  aloft,  shading  the  Fount  of  Life, 
And  where  the  River  of  Bliss  through  midst  of  Heaven 
Rolls  o'er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream." 

{Paradise  Lost,  iii,  349-359.) 

"  As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud, 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains, 
And  shadowino^  down  the  champaign  till  it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and  cracks,  and 

splits. 
And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar  that  Earth 
Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry ;  for  everything 
Gave  way  before  him :  only  Florian,  he 
That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right  eye. 
Thrust  in  between;  but  Arac  rode  him  down." 

{The    Princess,   v.) 

These  metrical  paragraphs   may  be   said  to  fill 
somewhat  the  place  of  couplet   or   stanza   in  the 


274  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Otherwise  continuous  flow  of  the  metre.  Finally, 
the  place  of  rime  is  taken  in  some  measure  by  an 
especially  marked  use  of  tone-color  or  verbal  mel- 
ody, which  has  been  developed  in  blank  verse  rather 
more  than  in  any  other  metre.  Such  a  sonorously 
expressive  group  of  verses  as  these  from  Keats, 
for  example,  would  scarcely  be  looked  for  in  any 
rimed  or  lyrical  measure: 

"  Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareus, 

Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 

With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault, 

Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath ; 

Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element,  to  keep 

Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 

Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  crampt  and  screw'd ; 

Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 

Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convuls'd 

With  sanguine  feverous  boiling  gurge  of  pulse." 

{Hyperion,  ii.) 

It  is  in  its  fitness  for  continuous  narrative  poetry, 
whether  in  epic  or  dramatic  form,  that  blank  verse 
has  proved  its  special  value.  The  absence  of  rime 
and  stanza  gives  it  a  continuity  such  as  could 
not  otherwise  be  maintained,  while  its  flexible 
cadences  preserve  this  continuity  from  monotony; 
and  at  the  same  time  the  absence  of  these  obviously 
decorative  elements  fits  it  for  the  more  serious 
and  dignified  types  of  poetry.  In  the  drama 
especially  it  lends  itself  with  singular  flexibility 
to  the  representation  of  directly  uttered  human 
speech,   seeming  by  its  varied    cadences    and    its 


IAMBIC  METRES.  275 

want  of  rime  to  come  closer  to  reality  than  any  of 
the  lyrical  metres,  and  yet  maintaining  a  sustained 
rhythm  adequate  to  carry  the  most  lofty  and  in- 
tense emotional  expression.  Superficially  there  are 
no  marked  differences  between  the  forms  of  this 
metre  found  in  epic  and  in  dramatic  poetry,  save  the 
fact  that  usage  reserves  the  feminine  ending  for  the 
latter.  But  the  careful  reader  may  observe  subtle 
differences  in  the  cadences  of  the  two  forms,  such  as 
Symonds  suggests  when  he  says  that  dramatic 
blank  verse  shows  a  simple  and  progressive  struc- 
ture, epic  blank  verse  a  complex  and  stationary. 
'*  The  one,  if  we  may  play  upon  a  fancy,  resembles 
music,  and  the  other  architecture."   {Blank  Verse, 

p.  58.) 

On  the  qualities  of  this  metre  the  student  should 
consult  J.  A.  Symonds's  study  called  Blank  Verse, 
the  chapter  on  ''  Milton's  Blank  \^erse  "  in  Corson's 
Primer  of  English  Verse,  and  chapter  iii  of  Lewis's 
Principles  of  English  Verse.  Corson  quotes  an  in- 
teresting passage  from  an  account  by  Coleridge  of 
some  remarks  of  Wordsworth  in  a  conversation  with 
Klopstock :  "  My  friend  gave  his  definition  and  no- 
tion of  harmonious  verse,  that  it  consisted  (the  En- 
glish iambic  blank  verse  above  all)  in  the  apt  arrange- 
ment of  pauses  and  cadences,  and  the  sweep  of  whole 
paragraphs, 

with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

and  not  in  the  even  flow,  much  less  in  the  prominence 
or  antithetic  vigor  of  single  lines."  (From  the  third 
of    the    "  Satyrane    Letters.")      Symonds    pays    this 


276  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

tribute  to  the  metre :  "  English  blank  verse  is  perhaps 
more  various  and  plastic  than  any  other  national 
metre.  .  .  .  Plato  mentions  a  Greek  musical  instru- 
ment called  panharmoniinn,  which  w^as  adapted  to 
express  the  different  modes  and  systems  of  melodious 
utterance.  This  name  might  be  applied  to  our  blank 
verse;  there  is  no  harmony  of  sound,  no  dignity  of 
movement,  no  swiftness,  no  subtlety  of  languid 
sweetness,  no  brevity,  no  force  of  emphasis,  beyond 
its  scope."     (pp.  16,  17.) 

Six-stress  iambic  metre  is  a  familiar,  but  not  a 
favorite  form.  Naturally  dividing  itself  by  the 
medial  cesura  into  two  equal  parts,  it 
fimbk  verse.  ^oon  palls  upon  the  ear  through  the 
resulting  monotony;  and  on  the  other 
hand  the  verse  is  rather  too  long  to  admit  of  much 
variation  in  the  placing  of  the  cesura  without  los- 
ing its  essential  character.  Almost  the  only  im- 
portant English  poems  written  in  this  metre  are 
Drayton  s  Polyolbion  and  Browning's  FiUne  at  the 
Fair.  But  as  a  variation  from  the  five-stress 
iambic  metre,  both  in  the  heroic  couplet  and  in 
stanza  forms,  the  alexandrine  (as  six-stress 
iambic  verse  is  commonly  called)  does  impor- 
tant service.  Particularly  to  be  noted  is  the  part 
it  plays  in  the  forming  of  the  so-called  Spen- 
serian stanza  (for  which  see  chapter  vi).  As  used 
in  that  connection,  the  cesura  is  not  infrequently 
found  elsewhere  than  at  the  middle  point  of  the 
verse,  as  in  the  line: 

"  Vile  Poverty ;  and  lastly,  Death  with  Infamy." 


ANAPESTIC  METRES. 


277 


Seven-stress    iambic    verse    is    rare    in    modern 
poetry,  for  reasons  no  doubt  similar  to  those  which 
have  prevented  the  alexandrine  from  es- 
tablishing: itself  as  an  a2:reeable  measure.    Seven-stress 

*^  ^  iambic  verse. 

In  this  metre,  to  be  sure,  the  cesura 
is  not  in  the  middle;  the  monotony  of  the  cadences, 
therefore,  is  not  so  absolute  as  in  the  alexandrine. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  owing  to  the  greater  length 
of  the  verse,  the  cesura  is  held  even  more  insistently 
than  in  the  alexandrine  at  its  one  natural  point, — 
between  the  fourth  and  the  fifth  foot.  The  result- 
ing effect  is  best  observed  in  the  single  important 
English  poem  in  tliis  ''  septenary  "  metre. — Chap- 
man's translation  of  Homer.  Generally  the  metre 
has  tended  so  constantly  to  break  at  the  end  of  the 
fourth  foot  that  it  is  most  often  found  in  the  dis- 
guised form  of  a  stanza  made  up  of  four  stresses 
alternating  with  three:* 

"  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

Anapestic  verse  stands  next  to  iambic  in  the  ex- 
tent and  importance  of  its  use  in  English  poetry. 
As   has    already   appeared,    the    earliest   Anapestic 
periods  of  English  verse  showed  a  con-  °^«*r«s. 
stant  tendency  toward  the  use  of  trisyllabic  feet,  and 
we    have    also    seen    that    anapestic    rhythm    easily 

*  The  *'  common  metre  "  of  the  hymn-books. 


278  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

intrudes  into  that  which  sets  out  to  be  iambic. 
Since  the  tendency  of  the  reader  is  almost  always  to 
bring  a  given  number  of  anapestic  feet  into  the  same 
time  as  the  same  number  of  iambic  feet,  there  is  a 
natural  hurrying  over  of  the  light  syllables,  and  a 
consequent  rapidity  in  the  characteristic  movement 
of  this  type  of  metre.  For  this  reason  it  is  usually 
preferred  either  for  themes  of  a  light  character, 
or  for  those  which  call  for  a  more  flowing,  gal- 
loping, or  lilting  cadence  than  the  steadier  alter- 
nating beats  of  the  iambic  form.  Characteristic 
examples  are  Byron's  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 
("The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 
fold,"),  Shelley's  Cloud,  Moore's  song  beginning 
"  Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  3^oung  charms," 
and  O'Shaughnessy's  Fountain  of  Tears."^     Ana- 

*  Cf.  these  lines  in  particular  : 

"  And  it  flows  and  it  flows,  with  a  motion 

So  gentle  and  loving  and  listless, 

And  murmurs  a  tune  so  resistless 

To  him  who  hath  suffered,  and  hears." 

Compare  also  Swinburne's  remark  on  the  seven-stress  anapestic 
verse  of  Aristophanes  :  "  this  resonant  and  triumphant  metre,  which 
goes  ringing  at  full  gallop  as  of  horses  who 

*  dance  as  'twere  to  the  music 
Their  own  hoofs  make.' "  {Studies  in  Song,  p.  68.) 

Swinburne's  translation  runs  : 

"  Come  on  then,  ye  dwellers  by  nature  in  darkness,  and  like  to  the 
leaves'  generations. 
That  are  little  of  might,  that  are  moulded  of  mire,  unenduring  and 
shadowlike  nations,"  etc. 


ANAPESTIC  METRES.  279 

pestic  metres  are  found  in  all  lengths  from  two- 
stress  to  eight;  but,  owing  to  the  increased  number 
of  syllables  to  the  foot,  verses  of  three  or  four 
stresses  adapt  themselves  best  to  the  natural  phras- 
ing of  poetry  (being  most  nearly  equivalent  to  the 
five-stress  iambic,  in  their  capacity  for  carrying 
thought),  and  are  more  common  than  the  longer 
measures.  Another  reason  for  this  preference  for 
the  shorter  anapestic  measures  is  the  fact  lliat 
they  tolerate  variation  of  cadence  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  substituted  iambus)  less  than  the 
iambic ;  *  so  that  a  long  anapestic  line  is  likely 
to  attract  undue  attention  to  its  form  either  from 
a  displeasing  effort  to  secure  variety  in  adapting 
itself  flexibly  to  the  sentence  it  carries,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  from  the  almost  breathless  continuity 
of  its  regular  flow.  Of  the  former  type  are  the 
long  anapestic  lines  of  Browning's  Smil  (such  as 

"  He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall 
stand  the  most  weak  ")  ; 

of  the  latter  type  the  still  longer  anapestic  lines  of 
Swinburne  in  numerous  metres  of  six,  seven  and 
eight  stresses.  (See  examples  in  English  Verse, 
pp.  43,  48.) 

*  This  is  because  of  (i)  the  necessity  of  maintaining  the  principal 
stresses,  when  they  occur  on  only  one  syllable  in  three,  and  (2)  the 
similar  necessity  of  maintaining  the  shortness  of  the  unstressed 
syllables,  in  order  that  they  may  not  drag  the  verse  and  keep  the 
stresses  too  far  apart. 


Ill 


280  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

On  the  disadvantages,  despite  their  technical 
brilhancy,  of  the  longer  anapestic  metres,  Professor 
Lewis  comments  interestingly  in  Principles  of  English 
Verse,  pp.  116-118.  *' No  one  can  fully  appreciate 
at  the  same  time  both  the  rhythm  and  the  sense  of 
Saul;  we  either  relish  the  verse  with  only  a  vague 
sense  of  the  meaning,  or  else  becomie  absorbed  in  the 
meaning  with  only  a  vague  sense  of  the  verse.  A 
similar  effect  is  produced  by  much  of  Swinburne's 
poetry;  for  though  Swinburne  is  the  greatest  living 
master  of  these  forms  of  verse,  he  has  achieved  his 
mastery  largely  by  sacrificing  clearness  and  precision 
of  style  to  sensuous  charm  of  sound.  It  is  safe  to 
predict  that  any  one  who  reads  the  opening  lines  of 
Hesperia  for  the  first  time  will  find  them  rhythmically 
charming,  but  will  have  little  more  understanding  of 
them  than  of  the  beautiful  nonsense  verses  of  Lear  or 
Lewis  Carroll." 

Trochaic  metres,  for  reasons  already  discussed, 
have  never  established  themselves  largely  in  English 
verse;  and  we  have  also  seen  that  they 
are  commonly  made  catalectic,  so  as 
to  end  on  the  stressed  syllable,  like  the  iambic 
metres.  In  other  words,  most  English  poems  in 
trochaic  form  could  as  well  be  called  iambic  with 
initial  truncation.  (This  is  particularly  obvious  in 
Milton's  UAllegro  and  //  Penseroso,  where  the 
rhythm  changes  freely  back  and  forth  between 
verses  of  seven  and  eight  syllables,  and  one  knows 
not  whether  to  call  the  type  iambic,  with  frequent 
initial  truncation,  or  trochaic,  with  frequent  ana- 
crusis.)    Except  for  this  variable  character  of  the 


TROCHAIC  METRES.  28 1 

final  foot  of  the  metre,  trochaic  verse  is  commonly 
the  most  regular  of  all  the  types,  admitting  few 
variations  save  the  weakening  of  an  occasional  full 
stress  to  a  secondary  stress.  Where  no  stress  can 
easily  be  found,  as  in  the  second  foot  of 

"  Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset," 

there  is  an  efifect  as  of  a  wavering  or  weakened 
metrical  structure.  In  longer  verses,  "  variety  in 
uniformity  "  is  sometimes  secured  by  the  alternation 
of  full-stress  and  half-stress,  in  the  "  paeonic  "  man- 
ner, as  in  Browning's 

"  On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep." 

Trochaic  feet  are  most  used  in  four-stress  verse, 
which,  when  complete  or  acatalectic,  gives  the  metre 
of  Hiazvatha,  and,  without  the  final  syllable,  the 
metre  of  a  good  part  of  Milton's  L' Allegro  and  a 
number  of  the  minor  poems  of  Keats  (Fancy,  Robin 
Hood,  Mermaid  Tavern,  etc.).*  Of  long  trochaic 
verses  the  most  notable  instances  are  Tennyson's 
Locksley  Hall,  Browning's  La  Saisiac,  and  Poe's 
Raven,  all  of  eight  stresses,  and  Tennyson's  To 
Virgil,  which    reaches    the    very    unusual    length 


*  In  praise  of  this  seven-syllable  metre,  see  some  remarks  of 
Lamb  in  his  essay  on  "  The  Poetry  of  George  Wither."  "  \Vhat 
longer  measure,"  he  exclaims,  "  can  go  beyond  the  majesty  of 
this  ! " 


282  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

of  nine  stresses  (most  of  the  lines  breaking  into 
fours  and  fives)  : 

"  Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature  moved  by  Univer- 
sal Mind." 

Five-stress  trochaics  are  rare:  a  conspicuous  ex- 
ception is  Browning's  One  Word  More,  made  still 
more  remarkable  by  the  omission  of  rime. 

The  fourth  of  the  types  of  metre,  the  dactylic, 
is  least  used  and — one  must  suppose — least  prac- 
ticable in  English  verse;  the  numerous 

Dactylic  metres.       ^^  ^         ^    .  i  •  i      i         i      •    - 

attempts  at  it  which  break  into  ana- 
pestic  rhythm  are  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
preference  of  our  language  or  our  ears  for  the 
*'  rising "  types  of  metre.  Yet  it  may  be  found 
(commonly,  like  trochaic  verse,  with  final  trunca- 
tion or  catalexis)  in  lengths  varying  from  two- 
stress  to  six-stress,  in  such  well-known  poems  as 
Hood's  Bridge  of  Sighs,  Browning's  Cavalier 
Tunes,  and  (with  a  strong  admixture  of  anapestic 
cadences)  Tennyson's  Northern  Farmer.  In  five- 
stress  and  seven-stress  verses  it  is  practically  un- 
used; an  almost  unique  example  of  its  appearance 
in  eight-stress  form  may  be  found  in  Longfellow's 
Golden  Legend  (iv).  But  the  importance  of  the 
type  depends  chiefly  upon  its  use  in  verses  of  six 
feet,  in  poems  designed  to  imitate  the  rhythm  of 
the  dactylic  hexameter  in  Greek  and  Latin.  Of 
these  poems  the  leading  examples  are  Longfellow's 
Evangeline,  Clough's  Bothie  of  Toher-na-Vuolich, 


DACTYLIC  METRES. 


283 


and  Kingsley's  Andromeda  (for  numerous  other 
experiments,  see  references  in  English  Verse,  pp. 
340-356). 

The  classical  hexameter  is  a  metre  consisting  of 
six  feet,  of  which  the  last  is  either  a  spondee  or  a 
trochee,   and   the  other   five  are  either 
dactvls  or  spondees,   with   dactvls  pre-   Jhe  English 

•'  ^  '  ^         ^  nexameter. 

dominating  (a  spondee  in  the  fifth  foot 
being  unusual).  The  attempts  to  imitate  this  metre 
in  English  may  be  divided  into  two  classes:  those 
in  which  the  effort  has  been  made  to  preserve  the 
regular  quantitative  principles  governing  the  syl- 
lables and  feet  of  classical  prosody,  with  more  or  less 
conformity  at  the  same  time  to  English  stress- 
rhythm,  and  those  in  which  the  effort  has  been 
simply  to  develop  an  analogous  metre  made  up 
chiefly  of  dactyls  in  the  transferred  (accentual) 
sense  of  the  term.  The  result  has  been  a  great 
variety  of  metrical  effects,  and  a  great  variety 
of  critical  opinions  regarding  them.  \\\\.\\  the 
cjuestion  whether  it  is  either  possible  or  de- 
sirable to  reproduce  in  English  poetry  the  real 
rhythm  of  Greek  or  Latin  hexameter,  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do.  It  is  sufficient  for  our  purposes  to  note 
that  those  who  have  been  chiefly  concerned  to  imi- 
tate purely  quantitative  verse  in  English  have  com- 
monly paid  too  little  attention  to  the  principles  of 
English  verse  in  respect  to  regularity  in  the  num- 
ber of  syllables  and  the  arrangements  of  their 
stresses ;  while  those  who  have  neglected  the  element 


284  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

of  quantity  altogether  have  tended  to  produce  a 
kind  of  tumbhng  measure  in  which  six  stresses  ap- 
pear, but  often  without  sufficiently  equal  time-inter- 
vals between  them.  The  privilege  of  using  either 
dissyllabic  or  trisyllabic  feet  is  a  very  dangerous 
one,  unless  the  writer  has  a  sufficiently  good  ear  to 
observe  the  values  of  the  time-units  of  the  rhythm. 
In  such  a  verse  as  this,  for  example, — 

"  Birds   of  |  passage  |  sailed  through  the  |  leaden  |  air, 
from   the  |  ice-bound," — 

the  first  two  and  the  fourth  feet  are  neither  dactyls 
nor  spondees,  and  provide  no  equivalence  of  length 
for  the  missing  third  syllable  supposed  to  be  typ- 
ical of  the  metre.  In  Evangeline,  from  which  the 
verse  is  taken,  many  others  will  be  found  of  the 
same  character ;  and  still  others,  in  abundance,  whose 
opening  foot  fails  to  strike  at  once  a  strong  stress 
in  the  manner  properly  characteristic  of  the  metre, 
as — 

"  On    the  I  morrow    to  |  meet    in    the  |  church,    where 
his  I  Majesty's  |  mandate," 

which  by  itself  would  be  read  as  a  five-stress  ana- 
pestic  verse  with  feminine  ending.  Kingsley's  An- 
dromeda, on  the  other  hand,  represents  a  constant 
attempt  to  maintain  the  time  equivalence  of  dissyl- 
labic substitutes   for  the  dactyl, — in   other  words, 


DACTYLIC  METRES.  285 

shows  many  genuinely  long  syllables  in  such  feet, 
as  in  the  lines — 

"  Whirled   in   the   white-linked   dance   with  the   gold- 
crowned  Hours  and  the  Graces, 
Hand  within  hand,  while  clear  piped  Phoebe,  queen 
of  the  woodlands." 

Clearly,  like  the  long  anapestic  forms,  the  metre  has 
a  certain  charm  of  its  own,  and  a  flexibility  which 
in  careful  hands  may  yield  varying  and  beautiful 
cadences.  For  the  reasons  just  pointed  out,  how- 
ever, its  licenses  make  it  dangerously  easy  and  loose 
in  the  hands  of  the  unskilful;  and  that  it  is  not 
representative  of  natural  English  rhythmical  taste 
seems  to  be  indicated  by  the  fact  that,  notwithstand- 
ing numerous  experiments  in  the  form,  no  poem 
of  the  first  importance  has  yet  been  written  to  justify 
its  serious  use. 

Discussions  of  the  English  dactylic  hexameter,  in 
addition  to  the  account  given  in  English  Verse,  will 
be  found  in  Matthew  Arnold's  lectures  On  Translating 
Homer,  Southey's  Preface  to  The  Vision  of  Judgment, 
James  Spedding's  Reviezvs  and  Discussions,  John 
Stuart  Blackie's  Horae  Hellenicae,  Robert  Bridges's 
Milton's  Prosody,  Mayor's  Chapters  on  English 
Metre,  and  Omond's  Study  of  Metre  (Appendix). 
In  Swinburne's  Studies  in  Song,  commenting  on  his 
imitation  of  the  classical  anapestic  heptameter  in  a 
translation  of  a  chorus  from  The  Birds  of  Aristoph- 
anes, the  poet  observes  that  the  rhythm  of  the  original 
is    "  almost    exactly    reproducible    in    a   language   to 


286  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

which  all  variations  and  combinations  of  anapestic, 
iambic,  or  trochaic  metre  are  as  natural  and  pliable  as 
all  dactylic  and  spondaic  forms  of  verse  are  unnatural 
and  abhorrent."  (p.  68.)  On  the  other  hand, 
Matthew  Arnold's  hopeful  looking  for  "  continued 
attempts  at  perfecting  and  employing  this  rhythm  " 
finds  support  in  the  recent  remarks  of  Air.  Omond: 
"  A  great  poet  is  wanted,  who  will  treat  this  metre  as 
Milton  treated  that  of  Paradise  Lost,  discovering  its 
harmonies,  revealing  its  potentialities.  Prophecy  is 
futile,  but  many  signs  point  to  a  development  on  the 
lines  indicated.  Triple-time  metre  increases  in  favour ; 
lines  of  six  periods  are  exceedingly  common.  It  looks 
as  if  this  might  become  as  usual  a  length  in  triple 
verse,  as  the  five-period  line  in  duple.  That,  however, 
is  guesswork.  ...  Of  one  thing,  however,  we  may 
be  sure.  If  this  or  any  other  measure  is  developed,  it 
will  be  along  the  lines  which  it  shares  with  more 
familiar  forms.  Laws  which  govern  all  English 
measures  will  apply  to  this  also." 

In  1900  there  was  privately  published  a  pamphlet 
by  Mr.  Prentiss  Cummings  of  Boston,  discussing  the 
hexameter  verse  of  Homer,  Vergil,  and  English  poets, 
and  proposing  a  new  theory,  of  which  the  principal 
feature  is  the  rule  that  this  metre  should  (and  always 
does,  when  successful)  divide  the  verse  into  halves 
which  balance  perfectly  in  the  placing  of  the  main 
rhetorical  stresses  or  places  of  emphasis.  Thus  if 
principally  stressed  syllables  occur  in  the  second  and 
third  feet,  others  should  occur  in  the  fifth  and  sixth ; 
if  in  the  first  and  third,  others  in  the  fourth  and  sixth. 
The  point  is  illustrated  by  a  comparison  between  two 
translations  of  a  well-known  Greek  distich,  the  first 
of  which  violates  Mr.  Cummings's  rule,  the  second  of 
which  observes  it : 


DACTYLIC  METRES,  287 

"  Even  the  potter  is  jealous  of  potter,  and  craftsman 
of  craftsman : 
Even  the  beggar  to  beggar  is  grudging,  and  poet  to 
poet." 

**  Even  the  potter  of  potter  is  jealous,  and  craftsman 
of  craftsman ; 
Even  the  beggar  to  beggar  is  grudging,  and  poet  to 
poet." 

A  modified  form  of  the  dactylic  hexameter  is 
found  in  a  few  poems  whose  rhythm  is  in  part  imi- 
tative of  the  so-called  ''  elegiac  "  verse  of  classical 
prosody.  In  this  form  hexameters  of  the  usual  type 
were  used  in  alternation  with  others  in  wdiich  the 
light  syllables  were  omitted  in  the  third  and  sixth 
feet  (doubly  catalectic,  one  might  call  them).*  This 
alternation  is  easily  reproduced  in  English,  the  third 
and  sixth  feet  of  the  shorter  lines  being  filled  by 
single,  strongly  stressed  syllables,  followed  by  a 
pause.  An  admirable  example  is  to  be  found  in 
Mr.  William  Watson's  Hymn  to  the  Sea, — 

"  Lover  whose  vehement  kisses  on  lips  irresponsive  are 
squandered. 
Lover  that  wooest  in  vain    Earth's    imperturbable 
heart." 


*  The  technical  name  for  the  shorter  Une  is  "  pentameter  ;  "  but 
it  is  a  meaningless  term,  due  to  a  primitive  mistaken  scansion  of  the 
metre  as  made  up  of  two  dactyls,  a  spondee,  and  two  anapests.  In 
reality  the  six  feet  of  the  v-erse  are  as  obvious  as  in  the  full  hex- 
ameter. 


288  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Certain  other  metres  of  classical  poetry  have  been 

imitated  in  English,  in  forms  which  it  is  difficult 

— and  not  at  all  necessary — to  describe 

Other  psendo-      \^^   ^\^q   usual   terms   of   English   verse. 

classical  metres.  , 

The  best  specimens  of  these  may  be 
found  in  the  works  of  Tennyson,  which  include 
imitations  of  the  different  alcaic  metres  (see  in  chap- 
ter vi,  on  the  alcaic  stanza),  of  the  Phalaecian  hen- 
decasyllabic  metre  (composed  of  a  spondee,  a  dactyl, 
and  three  trochees,  as  in 

"  Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem  "), 

and,  in  Boadicea,  of  the  extraordinary  **  galliambic  *' 
metre  of  Catullus : 

"  Yelled  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  o'er  a 
wild  confederacy." 

This  last  metre  has  also  been  imitated  by  George 
Meredith  in  a  poem  called  PJiacfhon.  Other  class- 
ical imitations  will  be  noticed  in  connection  with 
stanzas,  in  the  next  chapter,  and  are  described  in 
English  Verse,  pp.  331-340.  On  Swinburne's  Chor- 
iamhics,  see  page  235  above.  In  general,  recent  En- 
glish poetry  is  characterized  by  great  freedom  and 
ingenuity  in  the  invention  and  variation  of  metrical 
forms,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  pres- 
ent century  may  show  as  remarkable  a  development 
in  this  direction  as  the  last.  But  whatever  the  new 
forms  of  metre,  and  whether  they  be  imitated  from 


D/tCTYLIC  METRES.  289 

those  of  other  languages  or  devised  de  novo  for  our 
own,  they  must  conform  to  the  metrical  laws  which 
we  have  been  studying,  speaking  the  rhythmical  lan- 
guage of  the  English  race,  or  they  will  remain  mere 
curiosities — not  real  interpreters  of  our  feelings 
and  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

RIME  AND  STANZA  FORMS. 

Thus  far,  in  considering  the  external  form  of 
poetry,  we  have  confined  ourselves  to  the  single 
verse  and  the  phenomena  which  it  presents.  It  re- 
mains to  examine  the  relation  of  verses  to  one  an- 
other as  they  are  found  grouped  in  larger  units  of 
verse  form. 

The  chief  means  of  linking  verses  together  in 

these  larger   units   is   Rime.      In  modern   English 

usas^e,  verses  are  said  to  rime  when  there 

NatTire  and  ....  .  . 

fimctions  of  is  Similarity  (commonly  to  the  pomt  of 
"°^®'  identity)    between   the    sounds    of   the 

vowels  bearing  the  last  principal  stress  and  all 
(whether  vow^el  or  consonant  sounds)  that  follow 
them.  Such  answering  or  echoing  sounds,  which 
may  occur  by  chance  at  any  point,  and  wdiich 
may  be  deliberately  used  for  giving  a  certain  melodic 
color  to  the  poetic  form  (see  on  assonance  and  the 
like,  in  chapter  iv  above),  become  peculiarly  conspic- 
uous when  they  occur  at  the  emphatic  close  of 
neighboring  verses,  and  serve  very  readily  to  link 
such  verses  together  for  the  ear.    The  functions  of 

290 


RIME.  2gi 

rime  may  therefore  be  summarized  as  three :  ( i )  the 
giving  of  pleasure  by  the  correspondence  of  similar 
sounds;  (2)  the  emphasizing  of  the  concluding 
cadence  of  the  verse;  and  (3)  the  linking  of  separ- 
ate verses  into  larger  metrical  units. 

When  single  syllables  only  are  involved  in  rime, 
the  rime  is  called  masculine;  when  both  a  stressed 
and  an  unstressed  syllable  are  involved, 
as    in    *' nation  "    and    *' creation,"    the  Masculine  and 

feminine  rime. 

rime  is  called  feminine  or  double; 
when  a  stressed  syllable  and  two  unstressed  syl- 
lables are  involved,  as  in  "  fortunate  "  and  "  im- 
portunate," it  is  called  triple.  Obviously  the  rimes 
in  trochaic  and  dactylic  metres  are  regularly  femi- 
nine; in  the  more  familiar  iambic  and  anapestic 
forms,  and  in  trochaic  and  dactylic  catalectic,  fem- 
inine rimes  are  exceptional,  and  give  characteristic 
variety  and  emphasis  to  the  verse.  This  may  be  ap- 
preciated by  comparing  the  effect  of  such  a  sonnet  as 
the  twentieth  of  Shakspere's  (beginning  *'  A  wo- 
man's face  with  Nature's  own  liand  painted"), 
whose  rimes  are  altogether  feminine,  with  the  more 
familiar  cadences  of  those  based  on  masculine  rime. 
Again,  the  charm  of  such  a  stanza  as  this  from 
Swinburne  is  certainly  due  in  part  to  the  cadences 
of  the  feminine  rimes : 

"  So  hath  it  been,  so  be  it. 
For  who  shall  live  and  flee  it? 
But  look  that  no  man  see  it 
Or  hear  it  unaware ; 


292  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Lest  all  who  love  and  choose  him 
See  Love,  and  so  refuse  him ; 
For  all  who  find  him  lose  him; 
But  all  have  found  him  fair." 

{Before  Dawn.) 

In  the  verse  of  Chaucer,  it  should  be  noticed,  and 
of  other  early  poets  who  wa*ote  while  final  -e,  both 
written  and  pronounced,  was  still  characteristic  of 
most  inflected  English  words,  feminine  rime  is  far 
more  common  than  in  later  verse ;  but  the  cadence  of 
such  terminations  was  lighter  than  that  of  ordi- 
nary feminine  rimes,  and  closely  reproduced  effects 
which  are  now  familiar  only  in  Italian  and  French 
verse. 

The  variety  and  emphasis  of  feminine  rime  are 

still   further  increased  in  the  case  of  triple   rime, 

which   is  so  conspicuous  as  to  attract 

Triple  rime.  .  •       i  r  i  i      • 

attention  to  itself  or  to  the  words  in 
which  it  occurs.  Like  a  remarkably  brilliant  bit 
of  color  in  a  gown  or  a  picture,  it  is  likely  to  give 
either  pleasure  or  offense, — to  produce  an  effect 
either  of  special  beauty  or  of  grotesqueness.  The 
most  familiar  examples  of  triple  rime  in  English 
poetry  are  designed  to  set  off  humorous,  satiric,  or 
arabesque  expression;  as  in  Byron's  famous  coup- 
let,— 

"  But — oh !  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 
Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-pecked  you  all  ?  " 


RIME.  293 

and  Browning's — 

"  His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wreathy  hop, 
Sunburned  all  over  like  an  ^thiop." 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  familiar  examples 
of  its  use  for  the  emphasis  of  wholly  serious  emo- 
tional expression, — the  most  notable,  perhaps,  being 
Hood's  Bridge  of  Sighs  (see  in  English  Verse,  p. 
1 30V  Other  interesting  examples  are  Lanier's 
Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master,  with  the  curious 
threefold  triple  rime — 

"  But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 
The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him, 
The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him," 

and  Kipling's  The  Miracles: 

"  I  sent  a  message  to  my  dear — 

A  thousand  leagues  and  more  to  her — 
The  dumb  sea-levels  thrilled  to  hear, 
And  Lost  Atlantis  bore  to  her." 

Another  method  by  which  the  emphasis  and  color- 
ing of  rime  are  magnified  is  by  the  use  of  internal 
rime  in  connection  with  the  usual  end- 

r^.  .  ,.         .,  ^,     ,     ,,        Internal  rime. 

rime.   This   ordinarily   means   that   the 
final  syllable  of  the  verse  rimes  with  that  just  pre- 
ceding the  medial  cesura,  either  in  addition  to,  or 
(more  commonly)  as  a  substitute  for,  its  rime  with 


294 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


the  last  syllable  of  another  verse.  Thus  in  The 
Ancient  Mariner: 

"  The   fair   breeze   blew,   the   white   foam   flew. 
The   furrow   streamed   off   free; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea." 

If  the  verse  be  of  considerable  length,  internal  rime 
will  tend  to  break  it  into  two  shorter  verses,  and 
when — as  is  sometimes  the  case — the  syllable  at 
the  cesura  rimes  with  the  syllable  at  the  cesura  of 
the  succeeding  verse  (the  end-syllables  also  riming 
as  usual),  the  result  will  be  something  very  like  the 
"  common  metre "  quatrain,  riming  alternately.* 
Yet  there  is  a  marked  difference  between  a  given 
number  of  syllables  viewed  as  forming  a  single 
verse,  wdth  internal  rime,  and  the  same  syllables 
view^ed  as  forming  two  shorter  verses.  No  one 
would  write  the  stanza  just  quoted  from  The 
Ancient  Mariner  in  six  verses  instead  of  four;  and 
the  familiar  song  in  The  Princess  would  be  badly 
changed  if  printed  in  this  fashion : 

"  The   splendor   falls 
On  castle  walls, 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 

*  So  in  Poe's  Lenore : 

"  Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song  be  sung ; 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so  young." 


RIME. 


295 


The  long  light  shakes 
Across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory." 

What,  then,  is  the  difference  between  this  stanza 
and  that  written  by  Tennyson?  Chiefly  that  the 
words  "  falls  "  and  "  shakes  "  are  not  intended  by 
the  poet  to  sound  as  clearly  as  "  walls "  and 
"  lakes;  "  much  less  are  they  intended  to  emphasize 
the  conclusion  of  a  strong  cadence,  like  the  words 
"  story  "  and  "  glory."  This  he  indicates  by  writ- 
ing: 

"  The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls." 

Such  internal  rimes,  then,  sound  more  faintly  to 
the  ear  than  end-rimes,  like  a  separate  and  sub- 
tle melody  heard  underneath  the  rime-scheme  of 
the  stanza.  Their  faintness  and  subtlety  are  still 
further  increased  w'hen  they  rime  only  with  other 
internal  rimes,  as  in  Poe's  Lenore 

("  Let  the  bell  toll !  a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 
river  ") 

and  Swinburne's  Armada: 

"  England,  queen  of  the  waves  whose  green  inviolate 

girdle  enrings  thee  round, 
Mother  fair  as  the  morning,  where  is  now  the  place 

of  thy  foemen  found  ? 
Still   the   sea   that   salutes   us    free   proclaims    them 

stricken,  acclaims  thee  crowned."  * 

*  Compare  also  the  remarkable  internal  rimes  throughout  Shelley's 
Cloud. 


296  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

A  rime  is  weakened  not  only  wlien  it  occurs  at 
any  other  place  than  that  bearing  the  closing 
Half-stressed  rhythmical  stress  of  the  verse,  but  when 
rime.  — even  though  in  this  position — it  falls 

on  a  syllable  which  can  receive  only  a  secondary 
stress;  and  much  variety  and  beauty  are  secured 
""•  (particularly  in  poetry  of  the  late  Victorian  period) 
by  the  use  of  these  half-stressed  rimes.  They  soften 
the  jingle  of  the  answering  sounds,  like  the  damper 
pedal  on  a  piano,  and  subtly  vary  the  concluding 
cadence  of  the  verse.  Characteristic  examples  are 
such  rimes  as  "  free  "  and  '*  liberty,"  "  caress  "  and 
"  childishness,"  ''  souls  "  and  ''  aureoles,"  *'  things  " 
and  *'  vanishings."  *  They  are  particularly  likely 
to  be  found  in  the  sonnet,  not  only  because,  with 
the  heavy  demands  which  that  form  makes  upon  one 
or  two  rime-sounds,  such  weaker  rimes  prove  con- 
venient to  the  writer  and  agreeable  to  the  reader,  but 
also  because  they  seem  well  suited  to  the  subdued 
and  reflective  manner  characteristic  of  the  sonnet. 

Yet  another  weakened  type  of  rime  is  imperfect 
rime,  in  which  either  the  vowel  or  the  consonant 
Imperfect  sounds  in  the  riming  syllables  are  not 

rime.  identical.     This  is  rather  a  license  al- 

lowed the  writer  of  verse  than  a  variation  delib- 
erately chosen  by  him,  and  since  it  commonly  sug- 

*  Rime  may  even  occur  on  syllables  which  are  scarcely  capable  of 
taking  even  a  secondary  accent  ;  thus  Rossetti  rimes  "  wing-feath- 
ers "  with  "  hers  "  in  Willow-wood  and  "  love-lily  "  with  "  me  "  in 
Love-Lily.  This,  however,  is  a  mannerism,  and  inevitably  results  in 
either  the  wrenching  of  word  accent  or  the  complete  obscuration  of 
the  rime. 


RIME. 


297 


gests  imperfection — the  failure  to  attain  completely 
that  which  is  aimed  at, — imperfect  rime  is  and  must 
be  viewed  with  some  suspicion.  Yet  it  is  abun- 
dantly found  in  the  verse  of  the  best  poets;  and 
the  peculiar  difficulties  which  beset  the  writer  of 
verse  in  an  uninflected  language,  where  there  are 
few  similar  grammatical  terminations  to  make 
rime  easy,  furnish  some  justification  for  admit- 
ting it.  Some  would  even  claim  that  imperfect 
rime  forms  a  pleasing  relief  to  the  monotony  or 
jingle  of  otherwise  perfectly  rimed  verse.  The 
student  should  note  that  what  appear  to  be  im- 
perfect rimes  in  the  verse  of  earlier  periods  (as  late 
certainly  as  the  eighteenth  century)  are  often  due  to 
a  change  in  the  pronunciation  of  one  of  the  words 
in  question;  and  in  cases  of  this  sort  where  pairs 
of  words  originally  rimed,  modern  usage,  familiar 
with  the  imperfect  rime  now  resulting  from  their 
frequent  collocation,  seems  to  accept  conventionally 
their  continued  appearance  in  verse.  In  such  cases, 
too,  the  words  are  usually  spelled  alike,  owing  to 
their  originally  similar  pronunciation;  and  these 
"'  rimes  to  the  eye  "  are,  quite  illogically,  tolerated 
more  readily  than  those  where  neither  spelling  nor 
pronunciation  supports  their  use  in  pairs.  Words 
like  'Move"  and  "prove,"  "broad"  and  "load," 
"  earth  "  and  "  hearth,"  "  one  "  and  "  alone,"  are  ex- 
amples in  point.  Other  imperfect  rimes  commonly 
tolerated  are  "  ever  "  and  "  river,"  "  heaven  "  and 
"  given,"    or    "  heaven  "    and    "  even," — instances 


298  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

which  seem  to  be  due  to  the  lack  of  any  adecjuate 
number  of  perfect  rimes  for  certain  words  exceed- 
ingly common  in  poetry.  In  general,  imperfect 
rime  between  the  consonants  following  the  stressed 
vowel  is  far  rarer  than  rimes  in  which  the  vowels 
are  not  identical;  yet  Wordsworth  ventured  to  rime 
*'  robin  "  with  ''  sobbing,"  and  in  Tennyson's  Lady 
of  Shalott  "  river  "  rimes  with  "  mirror."  In  coup- 
lets, where  the  answering  rime  is  particularly  prompt 
and  emphatic,  imperfect  rime  is  less  tolerable  than 
in  many  stanza  forms ;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  long 
sustained  poems  usually  admit  such  variations  more 
readily  than  brief  lyrics,  for  which  we  expect  a 
more  perfect  finish. 

Finally,  it  should  be  noted  that  modern  English 
usage  (unlike  that  of  earlier  periods,  and  unlike  that 
Identical  ^^   French  poetry)    requires   ordinarily 

rime.  that    the   consonants    immediately  pre- 

ceding the  riming  vowel  shall  be  unlike;  in  other 
words,  that  the  syllables  involved  in  the  rime  shall 
not  be  wholly  identical.  Numerous  exceptions  will, 
however,  be  found,  in  cases  where  the  syllables  form 
different  words  with  distinct  meanings, — especially 
if  they  are  separated  by  intervening  lines.  Thus 
Shelley,  in  the  Adonais,  rimes  **  wilderness  "  with 
''  loveliness  "  in  one  stanza  and  with  ''  nakedness  " 
in  another.* 

*  This  sort  of  rime  is  called  rime  riche  by  the  French,  and  in 
French  poetry  is  preferred  as  the  only  complete  expression  of  the 
riming  art. 


RIME, 


299 


No  adequate  study  of  'the  phenomena  of  rime  in 
EngHsh  verse  has  yet  been  written.  Interesting  brief 
discussions  will  be  found  in  Corson's  Primer  of 
English  Verse  (chap,  ii),  and  Lewis's  Principles  of 
English  Verse  (chap.  vi).  The  best  account  of  the 
irregular  and  imperfect  rimes  used  by  English  poets 
is  to  be  found  in  two  articles  by  Professor  A.  G. 
Newcomer,  in  The  Nation  for  Jan.  26  and  Feb.  2, 
1899.  In  the  Contemporary  Revien'  for  Nov.  1894, 
William  Larminie  writes  in  advocacy  of  the  recog- 
nition of  mere  assonance,  or  vowel-rime,  as  a  legitimate 
variation  from  the  use  of  full  end-rime,  pleading  that 
attention  to  the  latter  is  thinning  out  the  substance  of 
modern  poetry,  through  unique  emphasis  upon  the 
demands  of  form.  On  the  other  hand,  the  most  ap- 
preciative accounts  of  rime  will  be  found  in  French 
criticism, — a  circumstance  due  to  the  proportionately 
large  part  which  rime  plays  in  French  poetry.  See, 
for  example,  Dorchain's  L'Art  des  Vers  and  Guyau's 
Prohlcnies  do  fEsfhctiqne  Contcmporaine.  From  Dor- 
chain  this  passage  is  of  special  interest :  "  Do  you 
kijow  why  rime  is  an  aid  to  the  poet?  Hold  fast  this 
answer :  it  is  because  it  is  a  discipline,  and  every  dis- 
cipline is  at  once  a  source  of  strength  and  of  freedom. 
When  have  you  felt  your  steps  to  be  most  free  and 
strong?  Was  it  when  you  were  rambling  idly  among 
the  trees  or  the  rocks,  without  any  other  law  than 
your  caprice?  No.  it  was  when  you  were  once  on  the 
high-road  chosen  for  your  march,  when  a  flourish  of 
trumpets  that  sounded  in  your  ear,  or  a  merry  song 
that  was  rising  to  your  lips,  had  suddenly — as  by 
magic — lightened,  strengthened,  and  liberated  your 
pace  by  making  it  rhythmical."  (p.  177.)  Guyau  ana- 
lyzes rime  more  specifically :  "  It  is  well  known  that 
in  language  each  vowel  has  a  particular  timbre,  which 


300 


/ihl  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


is  nothing  more  than  the  chord  formed  by  its  funda- 
mental note  and  the  elemental  sounds  called  harmonics 
[or  over-tones].  All  language  is  therefore  a  succes- 
sion of  chords,  but  in  prose  they  succeed  one  another 
irregularly,  in  verse  they  recur  in  equal  numbers  and 
at  equal  intervals.  .  .  .  Rime  completes  the  har- 
mony by  the  chords  on  which  the  rhythmical  cadence 
rests  ;  .  .  .  this  regular  echo,  by  itself,  is  not  lack- 
ing in  charm.  But  further,  since  the  vowels  have  each 
its  own  timbre,  the  rimed  vowels  will  have  something 
of  the  varied  timbre  of  instruments  ;  some,  like  long  a* 
resemble  the  double-bass ;  others,  like  i,  have  the  acute- 
ness  of  the  clarinet  or  the  flute;  each  verse  can  be 
recognized  by  the  quality  of  its  final  syllable ;  some,  so 
to  speak,  are  accompanied  'by  one  instrument,  others  by 
another,  and  we  experience  a  pleasure,  as  we  perceive 
the  different  qualities  in  the  stanza,  similar  to  that  of 
the  musician  as  he  distinguishes  the  different  instru- 
ments in  the  orchestra  taking  up  one  after  another  a 
melodic  phrase."    (pp.  193,  194.) 

Turning  nov^  to  the  application  of  rime  to  the 

organization  of  English  verse  forms,  we  find  it  first 

of  all  as  accessory  to  continuous  narra- 

Rime  forming         .  ^  ^  11. 

couplet  and  tive  vcrsc.  Most  commonly  this  use  ap- 
terza  nma.  pears  In  the  forming  of  the  decasyllabic 
couplet  and — less  notably — the  octosyllabic  couplet; 
both  these  forms  have  been  sufficiently  considered  in 
chapter  v.  A  third  type  of  rimed  continuous  verse, 
borrowed  from  the  Italian  and  rare  In  English,  is 
the  so-called  tersa  rima,  in  which  the  rimes  run 

*  It  is  of  course  the  French  vowel-sounds  which  are  to  be  under- 
stood here. 


THE  STANZA.  301 

aha,  bcb,  cdc,  and  so  on ;  in  other  words,  the  verse 
is  divided  into  groups  of  three,  of  which  each  is 
linked  by  the  rime  of  its  first  and  third  Hnes  to  the 
second  line  of  the  preceding  group.  The  chief  ex- 
amples in  English  of  this  form  are  in  translations 
of  Dante,  imitating  the  metre  of  the  original,  such 
as  Cayley's.  Other  specimens  may  be  found  in 
Milton's  paraphrase  of  the  Second  Psalm,  Shelley's 
unfinished  Triuiuph  of  Life,  Morris's  Defence  of 
Gtiencvere,  and  Browning's  The  Statue  and  the 
Bust.  In  all  save  the  last,  the  metre  is  five-stress 
iambic;  Browning  uses  the  terca  rinia  uniquely  with 
four-stress  iambic-anapestic  verse. 

In  the  next  place,  rime  is  found  organizing  verse 
into  stanza  (or  strophe)  forms,  the  largest  com- 
monly recognizable  units  of  verse  struc- 

,  rj.,         ,  •     u        J        i  1      The  stanza. 

ture.  The  stanza  is  based  not  so  much 
on  rhythmical  elements  as  on  the  rhetorical  or  musi- 
cal grouping  of  a  number  of  verses  of  like  rhythmi- 
cal character :  that  is,  a  number  of  verses  which  may 
be  regarded  as  forming  a  short  paragraph  in  the 
thought-structure  of  the  poem,  or  which — on  the 
other  hand — conform  to  a  single  melody  completely 
uttered.  In  succeeding  stanzas  new  rhetorical  units 
take  on  the  same  form,  and  (in  the  case  of  song) 
adapt  themselves  to  the  same  melody.  Normally, 
then,  all  the  stanzas  of  a  poem  are  identical  in  the 
number,  the  length,  the  metre,  and  the  rime-scheme 
of  the  corresponding  verses.  In  short  stanzas  a 
highly  unified  rhythmical  movement  may  be  rep  re- 


30^ 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


sented,  which  falls  into  a  few  obviously  related  ca- 
dences ;  as,  for  example,  that  of  the  ''  common 
•metre  "  stanza : 

*'  Te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum, 
Te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum, 
Te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum, 
Te-tum,  te-tum,  te-tum." 

In  longer  stanzas  the  cadences  and  verse  groups  are 
developed  with  much  elaboration,  and  are  often- 
times so  extended  or  intricate  that  the  ear  can  only 
with  difficulty  grasp  them  as  single  units  of  verse 
form. 

Rime  is  for  English  verse  the  great  organizing 
element  of  the  stanza.     Theoretically,  stanzas  may 

exist  without  rime;  and  there  are  a  few 
Rime  in  notable  English  poems  in  which  rime- 

less  stanzas  or  strophes  are  found, — 
Collins's  Ode  to  Evening,  for  example,  and  Tenny- 
son's Tears,  Idle  Tears.  But  these  are  so  excep- 
tional that  one  may  say,  in  general,  that  English 
stanzas  are  based  on  rime.  Their  form  is  deter- 
mined, and  their  variations  are  made  possible,  by 
the  four  elements  suggested  in  the  previous  para- 
graph: the  metre  employed  (iambic,  anapestic,  etc.), 
the  number  of  verses  in  the  stanza,  the  length  of 
the  verses  (which  may  be  all  of  equal  length,  or 
be  varied  by  the  use  of  catalexis,  feminine  ending, 
and  the  addition  and  subtraction  of  entire  feet), 
and  the  arrangement  of  rimes. 


THE  STANZA.  303 

It  will  be  found  that  the  pleasurableness  and  ef- 
fectiveness of  the  resultant  form  also  depend  largely 
upon    four    considerations.      First,    the 
rhythmical  cadence  resultino^  from  the  ^"^^^^  °f 

-^  ^     *  stanza  effects. 

grouping  of  verses  of  particular  lengths. 
Thus,  in  the  stanza  instanced  in  the  previous  para- 
graph, the  response  of  the  three-stress  verse  to 
the  four-stress  that  opens  the  stanza  is  a  univer- 
sally obvious  and  pleasing  cadence.  The  response 
of  a  three-stress  verse  to  one  of  five  stresses,  while 
not   so   obvious   or   common,   is   equally   pleasing: 

'*  But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home." 

A  familiar  stanza  devised  by  Swinburne  finds  its 
peculiar  charm  in  the  change  from  three-stress 
anapestic  verse  to  a  concluding  verse  of  only  two 
stresses : 

*'  Let  the  wind  take  the  green  and  the  gray  leaf 
Cast  forth  without  fruit  upon  air ; 
Take  rose-leaf  and  vine-leaf  and  bay-leaf 
Blown  loose   from  the  hair." 

(Dedication  to  Poems  and  Ballads.) 

The  alternate  use  of  masculine  and  feminine  end- 
ings (as  in  the  specimen  just  quoted),  or — in 
trochaic  verse — of  catalectic  and  acatalectic  lines, 
without  change  in  the  number  of  stresses,  produces 
similar  effects.  Secondly,  the  pleasurableness  of  a 
Stanza  form  will  depend  upon  the  simplicity  or  com- 
plexity of  the  rime  scheme.    When  the  rime  sounds 


304  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

answer  each  other  promptly,  or  with  regular  alter- 
nation, the  resulting  effect  is  much  simpler,  and  is 
likely  to  be  more  popular,  than  in  forms  where  the 
answering  sound  is  delayed,  or  occurs  at  such  a 
distance  as  to  make  the  hearer  listen  for  it  with 
conscious  effort.  English  usage,  far  more  (for 
example)  than  French  and  Italian,  has  commonly 
preferred  the  simpler  rime  schemes,  and  avoided 
those  making  heavy  demands  upon  the  hearer's 
sense  of  form.  Thirdly,  and  more  generally,  the 
effectiveness  of  a  stanza  form  depends  upon  its 
relation  to  the  principle  of  unity  in  variety.  The 
very  existence  of  the  form  implies  both  these  ele- 
ments :  a  single  harmonic  combination  of  verses, 
which  can  be  grasped  by  the  sensuous  intelligence, 
and  a  variety  in  the  character  and  arrangement  of 
the  sounds  on  which  the  combination  is  based.  In 
the  simpler  and  more  primitive  types  of  stanza,  the 
element  of  unity  is  emphasized  and  that  of  variety 
neglected;  in  many  artificial  stanzas,  the  opposite 
is  true;  in  the  more  successful  artistic  stanzas,  not- 
ably (for  example)  the  "  Spenserian,"  both  ele- 
ments may  be  said  to  be  equally  recognized. 
Finally,  the  effect  of  the  stanza  wall  depend  on  the 
extent  to  which  its  metrical  structure  corresponds  or 
conflicts  with  its  rhetorical  structure.  Thus  in  the 
tersa  rima  (which,  although  not  strictly  a  stanza 
form,  admirably  illustrates  the  point  in  ques- 
tion), the  Italian  poets  commonly  make  each  tercet 
represent  a  rhetorical  unit,  with  a  fairly  important 


THE  STANZA.  305 

pause  at  the  end ;  while  most  of  the  English  poets 
who  have  made  use  of  the  form  have  run  over  the 
sense  from  tercet  to  tercet  in  such  a  way  as  to 
produce  an  entirely  different  effect.  The  same  thing 
is  notably  exemplified,  at  the  other  extreme  of  elab- 
oration, in  the  sonnet. 

In  general  one  must  suppose  that  here,  as  else- 
where, the  most  successful  forms  will  be  tliose  which 
are  most  truly  expressive  of  the  poetic  „ 
material  of  which  they  are  the  medium ;  poetically 
and  the  best  poets  will  commonly  be  expressive. 
found  to  make  their  stanzas,  like  their  rhythms, 
serve  the  inner  purposes  of  their  art.  It  is  easy 
enough,  with  the  almost  infinite  variety  of  possible 
combinations  of  metres  and  rimes,  to  devise  original 
types  of  stanza  or  strophe ;  but  a  stanza  form  which 
is  merely  intricate,  impressing  the  reader  as  new 
and  ingenious,  but  without  a  pervading  unity  in  its 
variety,  and  without  any  clearly  apparent  reason  for 
its  existence  in  connection  with  the  poem  in  which 
it  stands, — this  is  a  work  of  jugglery  rather  than 
of  art.  On  the  other  hand,  as  a  medium  of  ex- 
pression, particularly  in  lyrical  verse,  a  delicately  de- 
vised stanza  often  serves  beautifully  to  emphasize 
the  rhetorical  structure  of  the  poem  and  to  modulate 
the  poet's  emotion,  after  the  manner  of  a  melody 
which  surprises  by  its  freshness  yet  seems  natural 
the  moment  it  has  been  heard.* 

*  Among   English  lyrical  poets  perhaps  none  exhibits   so  much 
ingenuity  and  versatility  in  the  devising  of  stanza  forms,  and  gives 


3o6  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

Turning  now  to  the  particular  stanza  forms  which 

appear  in  EngHsh  poetry,  we  shall  find  it  impossible 

to  classify  them  by  any  accurate  scheme, 

Classification       since    the    various    elements    on    which 

of  stanzas. 

their  form  depends  present  cross-sys- 
tems of  analysis.  If  we  should  group  them  ac- 
cording to  the  number  and  length  of  verses,  the 
rime  scheme  would  break  through  these  groupings; 
so  also  if  we  approached  them  from  another  side. 
Yet  in  general  we  may  pass  from  the  shorter  and 
simpler  stanzas  to  those  longer  and  more  elaborate, 
by  no  means  attempting  to  study  all  possible  types 
or  even  all  those  in  actual  use. 

The  shortest  possible  stanza  is  one  of  two  verses, 
riming  aa;  *  and  this  is  actually  found,  used  dis- 
tinctively from  the  continuous  couplets 
of  heroic  verse.     Examples  are  Brown- 
ing's The  Boy  and  the  Angel,  in  four-stress  verse, 
and  Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall,  in  eight-stress. 


evidence  of  so  much  concern  for  adapting  them  to  the  content  and 
emotion  of  the  poems  concerned,  as  George  Herbert.  See  the 
remarks  of  Professor  George  H.  Palmer  on  Herbert's  stanzas,  in 
the  Introduction  to  his  edition  of  Herbert's  Works. 

*  This  method  of  descriptive  notation  explains  itself,  the  verses 
riming  together  being  indicated  by  the  same  letter.  If  it  is  desired 
at  the  same  time  to  indicate  the  length  of  the  verses,  a  superscribed 
figure  showing  the  number  of  stresses  or  feet  is  commonly  used ; 
thus  a  quatrain  in  "common  metre"  f four-stress  and  three-stress 
lines,  riming  alternately)  is  represented  by  the  formula  a^b'^a^^. 


THE  STANZA.  307 

Tercets,  or  stanzas  of  three  verses,  commonly 
riming  aaa,  are  somewhat  more  famiHar.  This 
stanza  is  found  in  Herrick's  lines  To 
Julia  ("Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia 
goes"),  Longfellow's  Maidenhood,  Clough's  Sic 
Itiir,  and  Tennyson's  The  Tzvo  J^oices,  all  in  four- 
stress  verse.  Kipling's  MulhoUand's  Contract  shows 
the  same  form  in  verse  of  seven  stresses. 

The  quatrain,  or  stanza  of  four  verses,  is  by  far 
the  most  familiar  throughout  English  poetry,  and 
illustrates  in  its  various  forms  most  of 
the  principles  of  variation  applicable  to 
stanzas  of  the  briefer  sort.     Theoretically,  the  qua- 
train might  appear  in  any  of  these  rime  schemes : 
aaaa,  aaab,  aaba,  ahaa,  aahh,  ahah,  abba,  abbb,  aabcy 
abac,  abbe,  abca,  abeb,  abec.     The  first  of  these  is 
an  exceedingly  simple   form,  in  which 
unity    is    attained    at    the    expense    of 
variety;  it  is  found  occasionally,  but  very  rarely. 
At  the  other  extreme  are  such  forms  as  abca  and 
abec,  in  which  variety  is  secured  at  the  expense  of 
unity;  the  closing  verse  of  such  a  stanza  would  rime, 
to  be  sure,  with  one  of  the  preceding  verses,  yet  in 
each  case  a  pair  of  verses  {be  in  the  first,  ab  in  the 
second)  would  be  left  without  any  linking  element. 
Stanzas  of  this  type  are  not  used.     The  form  abeb 
would  seem  at  first  thought  to  be  open  to 
the  same  objection,  yet  the  ear  is  satis- 
fied fairly  well  by  the  alternate  b  rime,  and  passes 
over   the   omission    of   rimes    in    the   other   verses 


308  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

without  serious  complaint.  This  quatrain  is  dis- 
tinguished only  subtly  from  a  long  couplet,  and 
it  may  easily  be  written  so : 

"  Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon,  how  can  ye  bloom 
sae  fair! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds,  and  I  sae  fu'  o' 
care !  " 

It  is  a  familiar  type  of  quatrain  in  short  verses, 
particularly  of  alternate  four-  and  three-stress,  as  in 
the  example  just  quoted;  familiar  especially  in 
songs,  ballads,  and  other  popular  types  of  poetry. 
Literary  poetry  tends  to  avoid  it  because  of  the 
sense  of  imperfect  finish  resulting  from  the  two 
rimeless  verses.  The  corresponding  quatrain  with 
complete  alternative  rime,  ahah,  may  be  called 
the  standard  quatrain  form  in  English 
poetry.  It  is  equally  familiar  in  the 
form  made  up  of  alternate  four-  and  three-stress 
verses  (as  in  Wordsworth's  Lucy  Gray),  in  four- 
stress  verses  throughout  (as  in  Cowper's  Shrub- 
bery), and  in  five-stress  throughout  (as  in  Gray's 
Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard) .  The  last  of  these 
types  is  sometimes  called  the  heroic  quatrain. 

Returning  to  our  possible  forms,  the  second  on 

the  list,  aaab,  while  a  practicable  stanza,  is  not  a 

true  quatrain,  since  it  inevitably  divides 

itself  into  a  tercet  and  a  coda  or  refrain. 

Used  in  this  way  it  is  familiar,  as  in  Cowper's  My 


THE  STANZA.  309 

Mary.  The  same  thing  would  be  true  of  the  op- 
posite type,  ahhb,  which  is  practically  unknown. 
The  form  aahh  is  a  simple  combination 
of  two  couplets,  into  which  verse  will  ^^  ' 
fall  naturally  enough ;  it  appears  in  some  important 
poems,  such  as  Shelley's  Sensitive  Plant  (all  in  four- 
stress  verses)  and  Marvell's  Ode  on  Cromwell's  Re- 
turn (with  a  combination  of  four-  and  three-stress). 
The  fact  that  it  is  by  no  means  a  favorite  stanza 
may  be  sufficiently  explained  by  its  comparative  lack 
of  unity :  there  is  nothing  to  link  together  the  first 
and  second  parts. 

The  type  abba  is  the  result  of  a  deliberate  effort 
to  modify  the  more  familiar  abab  quatrain,  for  the 
sake  of  securing  a  different  effect  in  the 
expressiveness  of  the  stanza.  In  the  lat-  *  *' 
ter — the  familiar — type,  the  natural  alternation 
of  the  rimes  results  in  a  somewhat  obvious  jingle, 
which,  although  it  is  by  no  means  destructive  of 
seriousness,  is  likely  to  impair  the  effectiveness 
of  a  long-continued  serious  poem.  By  holding  the 
a  rimes  further  apart,  so  that  the  second  answers 
the  first — as  one  might  say — more  softly,  a  re- 
markable change  is  produced,  which  especially  goes 
to  form  a  stanza  better  fitted  for  the  continuous 
flow  of  a  long  poem.  The  great  example  of  its 
use  in  this  way  is  Tennyson's  In  Menwriam.  Here, 
and  generally,  it  is  used  with  four-stress  verses; 
but    there    are    occasional    examples    of    the    same 


3IO  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

stanza  with  five-stress  verse  (for  example,  Milton's 
paraphrase  of  the  Sixth  Psalm).  The  same  rime 
scheme  is  occasionally  used  with  some  variation 
of  verse  length ;  as  in  Frederick  Tennyson's  Dream 
of  Autumn,  where  three  five-stress  verses  are  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  three  stresses,  and  in  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's A  Dead  Rose,  where  the  reverse  scheme  is 
used,  the  shorter  verse  opening  the  stanza. 

The  quatrain  of  the  aaba  type  is  another  deliber- 
ately artistic  variation  from  the  more  familiar  type ; 
a  variation  which,  although  it  is  open 
to  the  objection  that  one  verse  is  left 
without  any  rime-link  with  the  others  of  the  stanza, 
nevertheless  possesses  a  peculiar  unity  from  the 
haunting  insistence  of  the  one  a  rime.  The  ear 
expects  a  second  b  sound  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
stanza,  but  instead  is  brought  back  to  the  rime 
with  which  it  opened,  with  a  resulting  tone-color 
which  often  suggests  Fitzgerald's  lines : 

"  But  evermore 
Came  back  by  that  same  door  wherein  I  went." 

It  is  in  this  translation,  by  Fitzgerald,  of  the 
Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam,  that  the  stanza  is  most 
familiar.  Another  notable  example  (also  in  five- 
stress  verse)  is  Swinburne's  Laus  Veneris.  A  dif- 
ferent stanza,  in  four-stress  verses,  yet  of  the  same 
rime  scheme,  was  used  by  Tennyson  in  the  lines  To 
Maurice: 


THE  STANZA,  ^jj 

"For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 
To   break    the   blast    of    winter,    stand; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  billow  on  chalk  and  sand." 

The  similar  rime-scheme,  abaa,  is  not  in  use  as  a 
stanza  form,  doubtless  because  the  ear  insists  more 
strenuously  on  rime  at  the  close  of  the  second  and 
fourth  verses  of  the  quatrain  than  at  the  close  of  the 
first  and  third;  hence  in  this  case  the  second  h  rime 
would  be  more  strongly  expected,  and  the  repeated 
rime  tend  more  to  be  vexatious,  than  in  the  aaha 
arrangement.  For  a  similar  reason,  the  remaining 
forms  in  our  list  of  possible  quatrains,  aahc,  abac, 
and  ahhc,  are  wholly  unknown  in  actual  usage;  the 
absence  of  any  rime  for  the  concluding  cadence  of 
the  stanza  would  leave  it  with  a  disagreeable  effect 
of  accidental  formlessness. 

Stanzas  of  five  verses  are  most  naturally  formed 
by  the  extension  of  one  of  the  quatrain  types.    Thus, 
adding   to    the    aahb    form    a    third    h 
rime,  we  have  the  singularly  haunting   ^^^^^' 
tonal  scheme  of  Rossetti's  stanza   in  Rose  Mary: 

"  Mary  mine  that  art  Mary's  rose. 
Come   in   to   me   from   the   garden-close. 
The  sun  sinks  fast  with  the  rising  dew, 
And  we  marked  not  how  the  faint  moon  'grew ; 
But  the  hidden  stars  are  calling  you." 


312  AN  IN  TRODUC  TION  TO  POE  TR  Y. 

Expanding  the  ahcb  form  by  the  insertion  of  an- 
other c  rime,  we  have  the  stanza  of  Wordsworth's 
Peter  Bell  (abccb)  ;  or,  with  another  a 
abccb.  rime,  the  form  abcab    (used  in  Chris- 

abcab.  ^  ^ 

tina  Rossetti's  Summer  is  Ended,  the 
last  two  hnes  a  foot  shorter  than  the  others).  Ex- 
panding the  abab  stanza  similarly,  we  have  either 

abaab  (as  in  Rossetti's  Sunset  Wings) ^ 

8(  1)  £t  R  b 

ababb  ababb  (as  in  Waller's  Go,  lovely  Rose), 

abab  a.  ^^  ^^^  familiar  ababa  (as  in  Browning's 

Two  in  the  Campagna).  A  peculiar  type  of  the 
ababb  stanza  is  that  in  which  the  fifth  verse  is  a  long 
coda  to  the  quatrain;  thus  in  Shelley's  Skylark  a 
six-stress  iambic  verse  is  added  to  a  quatrain  of 
three-stress  trochaic  verses,  and  in  Swinburne's 
Hertha  a  long  coda  of  six  anapests  is  added  to  a 
quatrain  of  two-stress  verses  of  the  same  character. 

The  abba  quatrain,  expanded,  may  give 
abbba  the    form   abbaa    (found   in    Frederick 

abba  .  Tennyson's    Glory   of   Nature),   abbba 

(in  Christina  Rossetti's  The  Bourne),  or  abbab 
(used  by  Mr.  Wm.  B.  Yeats  in  Rose  of  the  World , 
with  the  last  verse  shorter  than  the  others). 

Stanzas  of  six  verses  are  either  tripartite  in 
structure,  dividing  into  three  pairs  of  verses,  or 
bipartite,  dividing  between  the  third  and  fourth  or 
between  the  fourth  and  fifth  verses.     Simplest  of 

the  former  type,  but  rarely  used,  is  the 
ababab.  Combination   of  three  couplets,  aabbcc, 

found  in  Browning's  Confessional. 
More    familiar    is    the    continued    alternate    rime 


THE  STANZA.  ^I^ 

scheme,  ahahab,  found  in  Byron's  She   Walks  in 
Beauty.    Similar  to  this,  but  without  the  a  rimes,  is 
the    form    abchdh,    used    in    Rossetti's 
Blessed  Damosel.    Of  the  two-part  type  ^bcbdb 
the  simplest  form  is  that  made  up  of  a 
quatrain  with  added  couplet,   ababcc,  used  in   the 
Dirge   in    Cyiubeline,   Wordsworth's   /    Wandered 
Lonely  as  a  Cloud,  and  Arnold's  Morality;  or,  with 
a  different  quatrain  as  basis,  the  form 
abbacc,  used  by  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  in  abb  ace 

^^  S  3(  D  C  D  Ci 

Thou  didst    Delight    my    Eyes.      Or, 

again,  the  couplet  may  precede  the  quatrain,  as  in 

the    aabcbc    stanzas    of    O'Shaughnessy's    Greater 

Memory.     Another,  and  important,  variety  of  the 

bipartite  six-line  stanza  is  that  formed 

by  addinsr  to  each  of  two  couplets  a   ^ail-rime 

,       ,  stanzas. 

coda,  or  ''  tail  rime,"  usually  of  shorter 
metrical  length  than  the  couplet  verses.  This 
gives  the  familiar  scheme  aabccb,  commonly 
called  the  "  tail-rime "  stanza  or  rime  couee;  a 
characteristic  example  is  the  bridal  song  from  The 
Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  by  Shakspere  and  Fletcher. 
What  may  be  called  an  inversion  of  this  form  occurs 
when  the  coda  verses  are  longer  than  the  others,  in- 
stead of  shorter;  such  is  the  stanza  of  Browning's 
Rabbi  Ben  Ezra.  In  Thomas  Buchanan  Read's 
Drifting  the  same  long  coda  verses  appear,  but 
riming  with  the  couplets  to  which  they  are  attached. 
Another  interesting  variation  is  a  stanza  based  on 
only  two  rimes,  with  short  coda  verses  forming  the 


314  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

fourth  and  sixth,  instead  of  the  third  and  sixth,  of 
the  stanza;  the  resulting  form,  aaahah,  is  familiar 
in  many  of  the  poems  of  Burns : 

'*  Wee,   sleekit,   cow'rin',   tim'rous   beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle  !  " 

More  complex  than  any  of  these  six-line  stanzas 
are  the  forms  ahhaah,  used  by  Browning  in  Childe 
Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came,  and  ahccha,  used 
by  Rossetti  in  The  Mirror. 

Stanzas  of  seven  lines  are  essentially  intricate  in 
structure,  and  comparatively  rare.  The  most  im- 
portant type  is  the  old  "  rime  royal  "  stanza,  ahahhcc, 

found  in  a  good  part  of  Chaucer's 
Eime  royal.        poetry,   and  in    Shakspere's    Rape    of 

Lucrece;  it  is  almost  invariably  used 
with  five-stress  verse.  Theoretically  this  stanza 
may  be  looked  at  as  an  expansion  of  the  ababcc 
type,  more  highly  unified  by  the  additional  verse. 
This  additional  verse  (the  fifth)  is  connected 
with  the  preceding  quatrain  by  its  rime;  but 
rhetorically  it  is  more  likely  to  be  connected  with 
the  following  couplet ;  hence  it  serves  in  a  subtle 
way  to  bind  the  first  part  of  the  stanza  and  the  con- 
clusion closely  together.  As  used  by  Chaucer  it  is 
one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  English  stanzas,  but 
modern  English  poets  have  rather  strangely  avoided 


THE  STANZ/i. 


315 


it ;  among  the  few  later  examples  are  certain  of  the 
tales  in  Morris's  Earthly  Paradise.  A  variant  of 
the  rime  royal  type  is  found  in  the  form  ababacc, 
used  also  by  Morris  in  Iceland  First  Seen.  Other 
seven-line  stanzas  are  formed  by  ex- 
pandine:    the    familiar    six-line     stanza    Other  seven- 

^  °  _  line  stanzas, 

of  a  quatrain  plus  a  couplet;  thus  we 
find  the  form  ababcca  in  Browning's  Guardian 
Angel,  and  ababccb  in  Thomson's  City  of  Dread- 
ful Night.  Adding  a  rime  to  the  aabbcc  stanza,  we 
have  the  aabbcca  of  Rossetti's  Soothsay.  More  in- 
tricate are  the  forms  abcabca,  used  by  Swinburne  in 
An  Appeal,  and  aabcbcc,  used  by  O'Shaughnessy  in 
St.  John  Baptist.  In  Love's  Nocturn  Rossetti  uses 
a  seven-line  stanza  characterized  by  the  presence  of 
only  two  rime  sounds :  ababbab,  with  the  sixth  verse 
shorter  than  the  others.  Finally,  there  are  oc- 
casional examples  of  the  tail-rime  stanza  with  an 
added  longer  verse  in  either  the  first  or  second 
group,  riming  aaabaab  or  aabaaab. 

Stanzas  of  eight  verses  are  exceedingly  numerous 
and  varied.     Simplest  of  all  is  the  continuous  alter- 
nate rime,  abababab,  rarely    used    be- 
cause    of     the     obvious     fact     that     the    Ottavarima. 

unity  of  the  scheme  is  maintained 
at  the  expense  of  variety.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  alternate-rimed  stanza  of  six  verses,  with 
a  couplet  added,  forms  the  familiar  ottava  rima 
form,  abahabcc,  in  which  the  principal  division  of 
the  stanza  lies  between  the  sixth  and  seventh  verses; 


J 


316  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

it  is  the  concluding  couplet  which  gives  the  form  its 
characteristic  effect.  Notable  examples  are  Keats's 
Isabella  and  Byron's  Don  Juan;  in  the  latter  poem 
this  stanza  was  brilliantly  adapted  to  the  purposes  of 
satire  and  burlesque.  Of  equal  or  greater  import- 
ance is  the  group  of  eight-line  stanzas  formed  by 
the  combination  of  two  quatrains.  If  the  quatrains 
are  left  with  separate  rime-schemes,  the  unity  of 

the  stanza  is  based  on  rhetorical 
line^staifzas'        rather  than  metrical    structure;    types 

of  this  character  are  the  stanzas  riming 
ahchdefe  (found  in  Shelley's  Indian  Serenade), 
ahabcdcd  (used  in  his  One  word  is  too  often 
profaned),  ababccdd  (used  by  Wordsworth  in  The 
Solitary  Reaper  and — with  a  concluding  verse 
longer  than  the  others — the  Ode  to  Duty),  ababcddc 
(used  by  Owen  Meredith  in  the  Indian  Love  Song), 
and  abbacdcd  (used  by  William  Watson  in  the  Ode 
in  May).  On  the  other  hand,  the  two  quatrains  may 
be  so  linked  by  rime  as  to  increase  the  stanzaic  unity. 
Of  this  character  are  the  stanzas  riming  ababbcbc 
(used  by  Byron  in  Farewell,  if  ever  Fondest 
Prayer),  abcbdbeb  (used  by  Christina  Rossetti  in 
Mother  Country),  aabcddbc  (used  by  Mr.  Watson 
in  Columbus),  ababcccb  (used  by  Swinburne  in  The 
Garden  of  Proserpine),  and  abbcddad  (used  by 
O'Shaughnessy     in     The    Fountain    of    Tears). "^ 

*  In  the  remarkable  poem  called  A  Song  of  Pahns  O'Shaughnessy 
made  use  of  no  less  than  four  other  distinct  eight-line  stanzas,  in  all 
of  which  the  second  quatrain  is  linked  to  the  first  by  the  b  rime  ; 
aabbcccb,  abaaccbb,  aababcbc,  and  aabbccbc. 


THE  STANZA.  317 

Among  eight-line  stanzas  we  have  also  that  of  the 
tail-rime  type,  riming  aaabcccb;  it  appears  in  Dray- 
ton's famous  Agincourt  ode,  and  in  Wordsworth's 
Daisy.  Many  other  eight-line  stanzas  are  formed 
by  the  combinations  of  verses  of  various  length ;  a 
notable  example  is  the  Hymn  in  Milton's  Nativity 
Ode,  riming  aahcchdd,  with  verses  of  three,  four, 
five  and  six  stresses.  Finally,  we  may  note  an  in- 
teresting stanza  of  eight  verses  in  which  the  rime 
scheme  is  in  part  dependent  on  internal  rimes :  that 
of  Mr.  Kipling's  True  Romance.  The  form  may  be 
represented  by  the  scheme  Ib'^bdC/e : 

"  Thy  face  is  far  from  this  our  war. 
Our  call  and  counter-cry, 
I    shall   not   find    Thee   quick   and   kind. 

Nor  know  Thee  till  I  die: 
Enough  for  me  in  dreams  to  see 

And   touch   Thy   garment's  hem : 
Thy  feet  have  trod  so  near  to  God 
I  may  not  follow  them." 

The  normal  English  stanza  thus  appears  to  be 
most  naturally  formed  of  four,  six,  or  eight  verses ; 
and   when  we   pass  beyond   this   point 
to    long^er    forms,    we    enter    the    field   ?^®  Spenser- 

,    .  .     .  ,         lan  stanza. 

where  individual  artistic  taste  has  in- 
geniously developed  and  elaborated  the  simpler  and 
briefer  stanzas  for  particular  purposes.  A  partial 
exception  to  this  is  found  in  the  nine-line  stanza 
invented  by  Spenser,  now  always  called  ''  Spen- 
serian,"   which,    although    apparently    devised    by 


3i8  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

purely  individual  art  for  a  particular  work,  has 
nevertheless  been  so  freely  and  so  beautifully  used 
by  later  poets  as  to  have  become  one  of  the  standard 
strophic  forms  of  English  poetry.  This  stanza, 
riming  ababbcbcc,  is  best  regarded  as  an  expansion 
of  the  eight-line  stanza  of  the  ababbcbc  type;  the 
first  eight  verses  being  always  in  five-stress  metre, 
the  additional  verse  in  six-stress.  Thus  the  con- 
cluding verse  is  linked  by  the  rime  to  the  preceding 
verses,  yet  stands  by  itself,  with  its  individual 
lingering  cadence,  as  a  kind  of  conclusion  and  re- 
capitulation of  the  entire  stanza.  The  Spenserian 
stanza  has  always  been  used  most  characteristically 
for  elaborated  and  sustained  poetical  narration  and 
description,  in  poems  where  attention  is  directed 
not  merely  to  the  theme  of  the  whole  but  to  the 
beauty  of  detail  in  the  several  parts;  or,  as  one 
critic  has  phrased  it,  poems  characterized  by  a  "  lin- 
gering, loving,  particularizing  mood."  Outside  of 
Spenser,  important  examples  of  its  use  are  in  Keats's 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Byron's  Childe  Harold,  Shelley's 
Adonais,  and  Tennyson's  Lotos  Eaters, 

Longer  and  more  elaborate  stanzas  cannot  be 
discussed  here  with  any  thoroughness.  Where 
Ten-line  Successful,  they  will  be  found  to  depend 

Btanzas.  qu   the   principles   already    exemplified. 

Interesting  instances  of  forms  of  ten  verses  are 
found  in  the  stanza  of  Chatterton's  .^Ua,  riming 
ababbcbcdd,  with  a  concluding  alexandrine  in  the 
manner  of  the   Spenserian   stanza;  the  stanza   of 


THE  ST/iNZA. 


319 


Gray's  Ode  on  Eton  College,  riming  ababcedeed; 
the  stanza  of  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  riming 
ababcdecde,  with  the  eighth  verse  shorter  than  the 
others;  the  stanza  of  Arnold's  Scholar-Gypsy  and 
Thyrsis,  riming  abcbcadeed,  with  the  sixth  verse 
shorter  than  the  others;  and  varieties  of  the  tail- 
rime  scheme  in  the  stanzas  of  Rossetti's  Burden  of 
Nineveh,  riming  aaaabccccb,  and  Mr.  Watson's 
Autumn,  riming  abbabcddcd.  Certain  other  long 
and  elaborate  strophic  forms  will  be  considered  in 
connection  with  the  ode. 

A  group  of  stanzas  has  been  reserved,  for  con- 
venience, to  a  separate  paragraph;  namely,  those 
whose  structure  is  based  not  merelv  on   ^  ^  . 

Refrain 

the  grouping  and  linking  of  coordinate  stanzas. 
verses,  but  on  the  use  of  a  refrain.  These  take 
us  back  to  the  early  connection  between  verse 
and  song,  and  are  among  the  most  purely  lyrical 
stanza  forms.*  The  simplest  type  of  refrain  stanza 
is  such  an  one  as  this,  from  a  primitive  song-lyric: 

"  Blow,   northern  wind. 
Send   thou   my   sweeting! 
Blow,  northern  wind, 

Blow !  blow !  blow !  " 

Here  the  refrain  in  some  measure  takes  the  place  of 
rime;  so  also,  though  with  the  additional  use  of 
rime  in  certain  verses  of  the  stanza,  in  such  refrain 
forms  as  Burns's  Birks  of  Aberfeldy  (whose  scheme 

*  From  the  historical  standpoint,  the  tail-rime  stanzas  probably 
belong  in  this  group. 


320  '^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

is  aaaR)  and  the  more  elaborate  type  seen  in  his 
Duncan  Gray  (aRaRbbbR).  Similar  types  are 
used  also  in  more  purely  literary  poems,  where  the 
insistent  recurrence  of  a  simple  theme  nevertheless 
resembles  the  method  of  the  song  lyric;  examples 
are  Cowper's  My  Mary  {aaaR),  Tennyson's 
Oriana  (aRaRaaRaR),  Kingsley's  Three  Fishers 
(ababccR),  and  the  concluding  chorus  to  Morris's 
Love  is  Enough  (ababbR).  Again,  a  single  word 
repeated  at  the  end  of  one  or  more  verses  may  act 
as  a  sort  of  extension  of  the  refrain  of  the  stanza; 
as  in  Carey's  Sally  in  our  Alley,  where  the  word 
"  Sally  "  is  repeated  at  the  end  of  the  sixth  verse 
of  each  stanza,  riming  with  the  full  refrain  which 
forms  the  seventh  and  eighth  verses.  In  Burns's 
John  Anderson,  the  unrimed  word  ''  John  "  is  an 
approximation  to  the  full  refrain,  "  John  Anderson, 
my  jo."  In  both  these  cases  the  refrain  itself  rimes 
with  other  verses  in  the  stanza,  and  so  very  com- 
monly in  modern  poetry.  An  example,  further  re- 
moved from  the  song  or  ballad  type  than  any  of  the 
others,  is  Shelley's  lyric: 

"O  World!     O  Life!     O  Time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 
No   more — oh,    never    more  !  "  * 

*  Of  these  refrain  stanzas,  as  developed  by  artificial  elaboration, 
such  French  forms  as  the  rondeau  and  ballade  furnish  notable 
examples.  They  are  reserved  for  separate  consideration  (see  below, 
PP-  333-337)- 


THE  STANZA.  321 

On  the  other  hand,  some  modern  writers  have  imi- 
tated the  unriming,  parenthetical,  and  partially 
irrelevant  refrains  of  the  old  ballad  type;  a  notable 
example  is  Rossetti's  Sister  Helen. 

The  stanza  forms  thus  far  considered  have  de- 
pended for  their  characteristic  effects  chiefly  upon 
variation  of  rime  scheme,  and  secondar- 
ily on  variation  in  length  of  verses ;  most  farieties!*^* 
of  them  being  in  iambic  metres.  In 
recent  periods  much  variety  has  been  further  se- 
cured by  combining  with  the  strictly  stanzaic  ele- 
ments alterations  of  metrical  character,  particularly 
in  the  trochaic  and  anapestic  forms.  Adding  these 
variations  to  the  possibilities  of  rime  arrangement, 
the  opportunities  for  fresh  experimentation,  agree- 
able in  an  age  of  romantic  individuality  and  love 
of  novelty,  become  limitless.  New  and  interesting 
stanzas,  like  that  of  Swinburne's  great  Chorus  in 
Atalanta  ("When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on 
winter's  traces"),  and  Kipling's  Last  Chantey,  will 
be  found  to  be  pleasing  in  large  part  because  of  the 
combination  of  rhythmical  with  more  strictly 
stanzaic  elements.  In  view  of  the  great  number  and 
interest  of  these  experiments  in  new  types,  it  will 
perhaps  surprise  the  student  of  the  subject  to  see 
how  much  of  the  best  w^ork,  even  in  recent  poetry, 
is  still  done  in  comparatively  simple  forms.  Despite 
repeated  periods  of  experimentation,  under  foreign 
influences    and    otherw^ise,    English    taste    has    re- 


322  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

mained  fairly  faithful  to  the  simpler  types  of  verse 
structure. 

A   particular   class    of  stanzas,    requiring   brief 

mention,  is  that  representing  the  effort  to  introduce 

classical   measures   into   English   verse. 

Pseudo-classi-        t  •  i        j  i 

cai  stanzas.  ^^  a  previous  chapter  we  have  seen 
how  this  appears  in  the  use  of  certain 
metres.  It  is  especially  the  lyrical  stanzas  familiar 
in  the  poetry  of  Horace  that  have  been  imitated  in 
like  manner,  and  most  of  the  experiments  in  this 
group  are  found  in  works  of  early  poets,  notably 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  Thomas  Campion.  Only  one 
of  these  stanza  types  has  in  any  way  established 
itself  in  English  poetry :  the  so-called  '*  sapphic " 
stanza,  made  up  of  three  verses  of  eleven  syllables 
followed  by  one  of  five  syllables.  Swinburne's 
Sapphics  are  an  admirable  example : 

"  Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  passion ! 
All  the  Loves  wept,  listening ;  sick  with  anguish, 
Stood  the  crowned  nine  Muses  about  Apollo; 
Fear  was  upon  them." 

Of  perhaps  more  importance,  yet  unique  in  modern 
English  poetry,  are  the  ''alcaic  "  stanzas  of  Tenny- 
son on  Milton: 

"  O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  time  or  eternity, 
God-gifted    organ-voice    of    England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages."  * 

*  The  partially  rimed  stanza  of  Tennyson's  quoted  above,  p.  31 1, 
is  thought  to  be  composed  in  imitation  of  this  same  alcaic  type. 


THE  STANZA.  323 

Other  interesting  experiments  of  the  same  sort  may 
be  found  in  Mr.  Robinson  EUis's  translation  of 
Catullus  in  the  metrical  forms  of  the  original.  Such 
imitators  of  classical  measures  usually  discard  the 
element  of  rime,  as  not  being  used  in  Greek  and 
Roman  poetry ;  and  some  of  them  try  also  to  repro- 
duce the  strictly  quantitative  measures  of  those 
languages. 

There  is  no  adequate  treatment  of  the  stanza  in 
English  verse,  outside  the  learned  material  accumu- 
lated by  Schipper  in  his  EngUschc  Mctrik.  The  most 
suggestive  study  of  the  function  of  stanza  forms  in 
adapting  the  expression  to  the  theme  and  poetic  mood, 
will  be  found  in  Corson's  Primer  of  English  Verse, 
chapters  vi-x.  Professor  Corson  analyzes  the  stanza 
of  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam  (see  page  309  above),  and 
emphasizes  the  difference  between  this  and  the  more 
familiar  abah  stanza.  "  By  the  rhyme-scheme  of  the 
quatrain,  the  terminal  rhyme-emphasis  is  reduced,  the 
second  and  third  verses  being  the  most  closely  braced 
by  the  rhyme.  The  stanza  is  thus  admirably  adapted  to 
that  sweet  continuity  of  flow,  free  from  abrupt  checks, 
demanded  by  the  spiritualized  sorrow  which  bears  it 
along.  Alternate  rhyme  would  have  wTought  an  en- 
tire change  in  the  tone  of  the  poem."  (pp.  70,71.) 
On  the  other  hand,  he  discusses  the  stanza  of  The 
Palace  of  Art,  an  ahah  quatrain  of  which  the  first 
and  third  verses  are  in  five-stress  metre,  the  second 
in  four-stress,  and  the  fourth  in  three-stress.  **  In 
the  stanza  before  us  the  poet  has  secured  an  extra 
enforcement  of  the  final  verse  by  making  it  shorter 
by  two  feet  than  the  first  and  third,  and  shorter  by 


324  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

one  foot  than  the  second.  Its  exceptional  length  alone 
enforces  it;  and  being  shorter,  the  rhyme-emphasis  is 
increased,  because  the  rhyming  words  are  brought 
closer  together.  .  .  .  The  subtle  adaptation  of  the 
stanza  to  a  pictorial  purpose  must  be  distinctly  felt  by 
every  susceptible  reader."  (pp.  80,  81.)  While  of  the 
aaa  tercets  of  The  Two  Voices  Professor  Corson  ob- 
serves :  "  What  the  poet  in  the  In  Mcmoriam  aimed 
to  avoid,  in  The  Tzvo  Voices  he  aimed  to  secure, 
namely,  a  close  emphasized  stanza.  The  poem  con- 
sists, in  great  part,  of  a  succession  of  short,  epigram- 
matic arguments,  pro  and  con,  to  which  the  stanza  is 
well  adapted.  .  .  .  The  terminal  rhyme-emphasis,  to 
which  the  shortness  of  the  verses  also  contributes,  is 
accordingly  strong,  and  imparts  a  very  distinct  individ- 
uality to  each  and  every  stanza."  (p.  78.)  In  the  chap- 
ter on  "  The  Spenserian  Stanza,"  Professor  Corson 
quotes  the  suggestive  remarks  of  Lowell,  in  his 
Essay  on  Spenser,  on  the  effect  of  the  alexandrine  at 
the  close  of  the  stanza :  "  In  the  alexandrine,  the 
melody  of  one  stanza  seems  forever  longing  and  feel- 
ing forward  after  that  which  is  to  follow.  There  is 
no  ebb  and  flow  in  his  metre  more  than  on  the  shores 
of  the  Adriatic,  but  wave  follows  wave  with  equable 
gainings  and  recessions,  the  one  sliding  back  in  fluent 
music  to  be  mingled  with  and  carried  forward  by  the 
next.  In  all  this  there  is  soothingness,  indeed,  but  not 
slumberous  monotony ;  for  Spenser  was  no  mere  me- 
trist,  but  a  great  composer.  By  the  variety  of  his 
pauses — now  at  the  close  of  the  first  or  second  foot, 
now  of  the  third,  and  again  of  the  fourth — he  gives 
spirit  and  energy  to  a  measure  whose  tendency  is  cer- 
tainly to  become  languorous."  In  Professor  Lewis's 
Principles  of  English  Verse  there  Is  a  brief  but  helpful 
discussion  of  the  stanza,  pp.  77-84.     This  observation 


THE  SONNET. 


325 


is  worthy  of  special  note :  ''In  all  stanza-forms  the 
rime  plays  its  part  in  one  or  the  other  of  these  two 
ways,  and  often  in  both :  that  is,  it  displays  the  stan- 
zaic  structure,  or  it  obscures  it,  or  it  partly  displays 
and  partly  obscures  it.  In  general,  simple  display 
is  more  popular ;  for  in  stanzas  the  sing-song  effect 
is  rather  agreeable  than  otherwise."  (p.  81.)  In  the 
same  connection  occurs  an  interesting  comparison 
of  the  quatrain  forms  aahh,  ahah,  and  abba. 

We  now  turn  to  the  consideration  of  certain 
types  of  verse  structure  analogous  to  the  stanza, 
but  more  elaborate  and  complete;  and 
first  the  Sonnet,  which  is  a  highly  elab- 
orated stanza  forming  in  itself  the  body  of  an  entire 
and  perfectly  unified  poem.  Of  Italian  origin  one 
of  its  tw^o  principal  types  exhibits  that  complexity 
of  rime  structure  which  we  have  seen  to  be  more 
characteristic  of  the  taste  of  the  Latin  than  of 
the  English  race;  the  other  represents  the  modifica- 
tion of  the  form  in  the  direction  of  greater  sim- 
plicity. In  the  poetry  of  the  age  of  Shakspere,  both 
forms  are  found  equally  important,  with  a  tendency 
toward  a  preference  for  the  second  or  English  type. 
In  modern  poetry  the  first  or  Italian  type  largely 
prevails,  yet  wdth  great  variation  of  form.  In  gen- 
eral, wherever  used,  the  sonnet  is  a  form  marked 
by  conscious  literary  art,  not  serving  for  the 
more  popular  purposes  of  poetry,  and,  while  broadly 
lyrical  in  character,  it  is  usually  more  closely  related 
to  the  reflective  than  to  the  song  type  of  lyric* 

*  See  the  remarks  on  the  sonnet  in  chapter  ii,  p.  70  above. 


326  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 

The   strict   or    Italian   sonnet    form   consists   of 

fourteen  verses  in  five-stress  iambic  metre,  separated 

into  two  distinct  rime-groups  between 

The  strict  ^j^^  eighth  and  the  ninth  verses.     The 

Italian  type.  ° 

first  eight  verses,  called  the  octave,  rime 
abbaabba;  the  last  six,  called  the  sestet,  are  variously 
arranged  with  either  two  or  three  additional  rimes, 
the  most  familiar  schemes  being  cdecde,  cdcdcd, 
cdedce,  and  cddcee.  English  poets,  in  general,  have 
exercised  considerable  freedom  in  their  treatment  of 
the  rime  scheme  of  the  sonnet;  Wordsworth,  for 
example,  frequently  introduced  a  third  rime  into  the 
octave,  in  the  form  abbaacca.  The  tendency  of  re- 
cent poetry  is  toward  greater  regularity  in  this 
particular. 

In  the  stricter  type  of  sonnet  there  is  a  marked 
rhetorical  pause  at  the  end  of  the  octave,  the  di- 
vision representing  a  twofold  expression 
^h^rffr  °^  ^^^  single  thought  which  forms  the 

unifying  basis  of  the  form.  Some,  in- 
deed, would  demand  that  the  entire  structural 
scheme  of  the  form  correspond  to  that  of  the  con- 
tent. Thus  Mr.  Tomlinson,  in  his  work  on  The 
Sonnet,  observes  that  the  "  one  idea,  mood,  sent- 
iment, or  proposition  "  which  it  expresses,  "  must 
be  introduced  ...  in  the  first  quatrain,  and 
so  far  explained  in  the  second  that  this  may 
end  in  a  full  point ;  while  the  office  of  the  first  tercet 
is  to  prepare  the  leading  idea  of  the  quatrains  for 
the  Gonclusion,  which  conclusion  is  to  be  perfectly 


THE  SONNET.  327 

carried  out  in  the  second  tercet."  Few  English 
poets,  however,  have  carried  out  this  conception  of 
the  form  carefully,  and  many  even  neglect  the  pause 
between  octave  and  sestet.  Some  of  the  finest  son- 
nets in  the  language,  like  Milton's  On  his  Blindness, 
and  Wordsworth's  The  world  is  too  much  unth  tis, 
while  bipartite  in  rhetorical  structure,  yet  divide 
not  between  octave  and  sestet  but  in  the  middle  of 
a  verse.  In  other  cases,  as  in  a  large  proportion  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  sonnets,  there  is  no  twofold  struc- 
ture, and  only  such  unity  as  any  short  poem  might 
show.  Yet,  apart  from  matters  of  purely  poetical 
merit,  those  sonnets  may  well  be  regarded  as  most 
successful  whose  form  bodies  forth  the  real  character 
of  their  content.  From  this  standpoint,  the  Italian 
type  is  especially  well  fitted  for  the  expression  of  a 
thought  presented  first  in  narrative  form,  then  in 
more  abstract  comment  (as  Arnold's  East  London)  ; 
or,  in  the  form  of  a  simile  between  two  objects 
or  situations  (as  Longfellow's  first  sonnet  on  the 
Diz'ina  Conimedia) ;  or,  from  the  standpoint  of  two 
different  moods  (as  Rossetti's  Lovesight)  ;  or,  ex- 
emplified in  two  coordinate  concrete  expressions  (as 
in  Keats's  Grasshopper  and  Cricket).  The  last 
named  sonnet  is  well  worthy  of  detailed  study  for 
its  perfect  adaptation  of  form  to  inner  structure. 
The  theme  is  stated  at  the  opening  of  both  octave 
and  sestet,  and  developed  separately  in  two  partic- 
ular applications: 


328 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


"  The  poetr}-  of  earth  is  never  dead : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun. 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead: 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's;  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury ;  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun, 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills." 

The  other  type  of  sonnet,  called  sometimes  the 
English,   sometimes  the  Surrey  or  the  Shakspere 

form  (from  the  earliest  and  the  most 
The  Engiisli       distinguished  of  English  poets  who  used 

it),  is  of  the  same  length  as  the  Italian 
type,  but,  instead  of  dividing  into  octave  and  sestet, 
falls  into  three  quatrains  and  a  couplet;  the  usual 
rime  scheme  being  ababcdcdefefgg.  The  resulting 
effect  is  different  in  two  respects:  first,  the  rime 
arrangement  is  more  obvious,  and  more  popular 
in  tone,  being  more  readily  followed  by  the  ear; 
second,  the  structure  is  more  directly  progressive, 
the  rime  scheme  being  developed  climactically  and 
closing  with  the  epigrammatic,  summarizing  coup- 
let. Both  these  characteristics  are  well  illustrated 
in  the  familiar  73rd  sonnet  of  Shakspere: 


THE  SONNET.  329 

"  That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang; 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest; 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by: 
— This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 

strong. 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long." 

Structurally  considered,  this  is  obviously  a  totally 
different  mode  of  expression  from  that  represented 
in  the  sonnets  of  the  other  type.  While  more  truly 
English  in  feeling  than  the  other,  it  has  less  that 
is  really  characteristic,  and  maintains  its  separate 
existence  as  a  form  of  art  less  insistently;  it  has 
therefore  been  comparatively  little  used  in  modern 
poetry. 

The  sonnets  of  Spenser,  called  the  Amorctti,  show 
a  variation  from  the  English  type  which  Spenser 
evidently  devised  with  a  view  to  linking 
the  three  quatrains  more  closely  by  the   The  Spenser- 

^  -^       -^  lan  type. 

rime;    the    scheme    is    ahabhchccdcdcc. 

This     form     has     rarely     been     used     by     other 

poets. 


330 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY, 


The  success  and  pleasurableness  of  the  sonnet 
form   seem  to  be   dependent  upon  two   elements: 

the  complexity  of  the  rime  scheme  (this 
^°^erffects       applying  only  to  the  Italian  type),  and 

the  fixed  length  of  the  whole  poem. 
The  former,  as  we  have  seen,  is  opposed  to  the  taste 
and  traditions  of  English  poetry;  and  it  is  perhaps 
for  this  reason  that  the  sonnet  always  remains,  as 
was  said  at  the  outset,  a  consciously  elaborated 
form,  appealing  chiefly  to  the  reader  of  cultivated 
taste  and  thoughtful  temper.  Notwithstanding  that 
most  of  the  great  English  poets  of  modern  times 
have  written  sonnets,  perhaps  only  Rossetti  (who 
was  of  Italian  stock)  found  in  the  formally  correct 
sonnet  the  natural  expression  of  his  lyrical  impulse, 
— the  form  par  excellence  for  uttering  himself  to 
his  fellows.  On  the  other  hand,  the  intense  unity 
of  the  form,  limited  as  it  is  to  fourteen  verses,  while 
it  presents  grave  difficulties  in  the  way  of  poetic 
workmanship,  yet  shows  a  dignity  of  manner  and 
an  effect  of  completeness  and  finish  which — even  if 
not  spontaneous — are  pleasing  to  the  artistic  sense. 
It  is  precisely  the  contrast  which  it  presents  with 
the  limitless  liberty  of  romantic  art,  as  exhibited  in 
abundant  variety  of  metrical,  stanzaic,  and  rhetorical 
structure,  which  gives  the  restraint  of  the  sonnet  its 
chief  charm.* 

*  See  the  remarks  to  the  same  effect,  and  the  reference  to  Words- 
worth's sonnet  on  the  sonnet,  in  chapter  ii,  p.  71  above. 


THE  SONNET.  33 1 

Discussions  of  the  sonnet  will  be  found  in  the 
work  of  Tomlinson's  already  cited, — The  Sonnet,  its 
Origin,  Structure,  and  Place  in  Poetry;  in  Leigh 
Hunt's  essay  introductory  to  The  Book  of  the  Sonnet; 
in  the  introductions  to  sonnet  anthologies  edited  by 
William  Sharp,  Samuel  Waddington,  and  Hall  Caine 
(see  bibliographical  appendix)  ;  in  Corson's  Primer 
of  English  Verse,  chap,  x  ;  and  in  Courthope's  History 
of  English  Poetry,  vol.  ii. 

The  tendency  of  criticism,  characteristically,  has 
been  to  favor  the  Italian  type  of  sonnet,  and  to  dis- 
countenance the  freer  forms  of  it,  which  neglect  the 
regular  rime-scheme  and  bipartate  division.  On  the 
fundamental  character  of  the  structure  Leigh  Hunt 
observed,  in  connection  with  its  supposed  musical 
origin :  **  A  sonnet  is,  in  fact,  or  ought  to  be,  a  piece 
of  music  as  well  as  of  poetry ;  and  as  every  lover  of 
music  is  sensible  of  the  division  even  of  the  smallest 
air  into  two  parts,  the  second  of  which  is  the  conse- 
quent or  necessary  demand  of  the  first,  and  as  these 
parts  consist  of  phrases  and  cadences,  which  have 
similar  sequences  and  demands  of  their  own,  so  the 
composition  called  a  sonnet,  being  a  long  air  or 
melody,  becomes  naturally  divided  into  two  different 
strains,  each  of  which  is  subdivided  in  Hke  manner; 
and  as  quatrains  constitute  the  one  strain,  and  terz- 
ettes  the  other,  we  are  to  suppose  this  kind  of  musical 
demand  the  reason  why  the  limitation  to  fourteen  lines 
became,  not  a  rule  without  a  reason,  but  an  harmoni- 
ous necessity."  Regarding  the  full  observance  of  the 
structural  possibilities  of  the  form,  as  outlined  by 
Tomlinson,  Professor  Corson  says :  ''  This  extreme  of 
organic  elaboration  is  not  found  in  many  English  son- 
nets. It  evidently  does  not  suit  the  English  genius. 
There  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  certain  artistic  satis- 


332 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


faction  in  such  strictness  of  workmanship ;  but  this 
strictness  is  more  than  compensated  for,  in  the  great- 
est EngHsh  sonnets,  by  the  high  quaHty  of  the  thought 
and  feeUng,  in  the  two  main  divisions,  taken  as 
wholes."  With  reference  to  those  sonnets  in  which 
the  rhetorical  structure  conflicts  with  the  metrical, 
Professor  Lewis  asks :  "  Why  is  not  this  really  better 
than  Rossetti's  kind?  Why  does  it  not  give  us  a 
higher  pleasure,  by  suggesting  a  conflict  between  the 
thought  and  the  sonnet-form?  ...  I  think  we  can 
perceive  a  beauty  in  the  very  freedom  of  the  Words- 
worthian  movement  which  Rossetti's  sonnets  lack. 
Nevertheless  I  prefer  Rossetti's  strictness,  and  regard 
Rossetti  as  our  greatest  master  of  the  sonnet-form. 
My  ear  cannot  grasp  octaves  and  sestets  as  readily  as 
it  can  grasp  couplets,  and  it  therefore  is  better  pleased 
when  their  integrity  is  preserved  and  emphasized ;  and 
octaves  and  sestets,  as  compared  with  couplets,  oifer 
so  much  more  freedom  within  their  own  limits  that  I 
feel  no  need  of  variation  in  the  limits  themselves." 
To  which  one  might  add:  why  adopt  so  elaborate  a 
scheme  as  that  of  the  sonnet,  if  there  is  nothing  in  its 
structure  to  which  the  thought  is  to  be  fitted?  One 
may  enjoy  a  group  of  marbles  placed  without  formal 
arrangement  as  well  as  a  similar  group  set  in  niches 
of  appropriate  size ;  yet  if  niches  and  marbles  are  both 
present,  perfect  satisfaction  tends  to  demand  that  they 
appear  to  be  made  for  each  other. 

In  the  next  place  we  have  to  notice  certain 
stanzaic  lyrical  forms  which  in  strictness  of  form 
Frencii  lyr-  ^^^  closely  related  to  the  sonnet,  but 
icai  forms.  which    are    used,    for    the    most    part, 

in  the  expression  of  wholly  different  themes  and 


FRENCH  L  YRICAL  FORMS.  333 

moods.  Imitations  of  French  forms,  they  are 
found  chiefly  in  the  poetry  of  Chaucer's  time  and 
that  written — with  conscious  revival  of  the  old 
courtly  manner — in  the  late  Victorian  age.  Their 
intricacy  is  usually  so  conspicuous  that  a  good  part 
of  their  pleasurableness  arises  from  the  reader's 
sense  of  difficulty  overcome  by  skill;  and  for  the 
same  reason  they  are  scarcely  used  with  lyrical 
spontaneity,  but  rather  for  the  expression  of  themes 
naturally  fitted  to  the  affectation  of  antiquated  style 
and  courtly  formality  of  structure.  So-called  vers 
de  socictc  (see  chapter  ii)  is  particularly  likely  to 
be  found  in  these  forms.  Two  different  moods  may 
be  distinguished  as  characteristic  of  them :  one 
purely  playful,  yet  redolent  of  good  breeding,  the 
other  seriously,  perhaps  even  pathetically,  devoted 
to  reminiscence  or  reverie.  Finally,  since  nearly 
all  these  French  forms  are  based  on  the  repetition  of 
one  or  more  refrain  verses,  they  are  characterized 
by  an  intense  unity  which  amounts  to  a  pleasing 
monotony. 

The  Triolet  is  the  briefest  and  least  dignified  of 
the  group,* — a  poem  of  eight  verses  with  two  rime 
sounds,    the    first    and    second    verses 

^,  _,,  1       •    1  xi       The  triolet. 

recurrmg   as   the    seventh   and    eighth, 

and   the   first   also   recurring  as   the   fourth.      The 

scheme  is  ABaAabAB.f       As  a  notably  successful 

*  The  triolet  is  really  a  short  form  of  the  Rondeau  (see  below), 
t  The  capitals  indicate  the  repeated  or  refrain  lines. 


334 


/iN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 


example  one  may  take  this  triolet  of  Austin 
Dobson's : 

"  Rose  kissed  me  to-day ; 
Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 
Let  it  be  as  it  may, 
Rose   kissed   me  to-day. 
But  the  pleasure  gives  way 
To  a  savor  of  sorrow; — 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day, — 
Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow  ? " 

In  this  example  is  illustrated  that  delicate  change  in 
the  accent  and  meaning  of  the  refrain  which,  in  all 
these  forms,  gives  an  added  charm  to  the  structural 
effect. 

The    Rondeau    and    Rondel    are   closely    related 

types, — the  two  words  being  different  forms  of  the 

same  original,  now  used  for  convenience 

The  rondeau  and  ^{^\y    distinct    meanine^s.      The    rondel 

rondel.  ° 

commonly  contams  fourteen  verses,  two 
of  which  serve  as  refrain ;  various  rime  schemes  are 
in  use,  the  most  familiar  being  ABbaabABabbaAB. 
Sometimes  the  last  B  line  is  omitted.  The  rondeau 
form  commonly  consists  of  thirteen  full  verses,  with 
an  additional  shorter  verse  used  as  an  unrimed  re- 
frain, taken  from  the  opening  of  the  first  verse,  and 
repeated  after  the  eighth  and  the  thirteenth  verses. 
The  favorite  rime  scheme  is  aabbaaabRaabbaR.  Of 
the  second  type  the  following  is  an  example  by  the 
late  W.  E.  Henley: 


FRENCH  LYRICAL  FORMS.  335 

"  What  is  to  come  we  know  not.    But  we  know 
That  what  has  been  was  good — was  good  to  show, 
Better  to  hide,  and  best  of  all  to  bear. 
We  are  the  masters  of  the  days  that  were : 
We  have  lived,  we  have  loved,  we  have  suffered — 

even  so. 
Shall  we  not  take  the  ebb  who  had  the  flow  ? 
Life  was  our  friend.     Now,  if  it  be  our  foe — 
Dear,  though  it  break  and  spoil  us ! — need  we  care 

What  is  to  come? 
Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow : 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves,  and  we  can  dare 
And  we  can  conquer,  though  we  may  not  share 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  afterglow 

What  is  to  come." 

The  Villanelle  is  a  form  of  nineteen  verses,  di- 
vided into  five  groups  of  three  and  a  final  group 
of  four,  all  based  on  two  rimes.     The 

r      ,  1    , 1  •     1  ,  ^f        The  villanelle. 

first  and  third  verses  are  used  as  the 
refrain,  the  first  reappearing  as  line  six,  line  twelve 
and  line  eighteen,  while  the  third  reappears  in 
the  ninth,  the  fifteenth,  and  the  nineteenth  place. 
The  rime  scheme  of  all  the  tercets  is  aha,  of  the 
conclusion  ahaa.  This  form  is  favored  for  pastoral 
or  idyllic  themes,  or — in  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's 
phrase, — for  subjects  "  full  of  sweetness  and  sim- 
plicity." His  own  villanelle  beginning  "  When  I 
saw  you  last,  Rose,"  is  one  of  the  most  charming  in 
the  language;  other  specimens  of  interest  are  Hen- 
ley's "A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle,"  and  Mr. 
Gosse's  "  Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die." 


336  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

The  Ballade,  on  the  whole  the  most  used  and  the 
least  artificial  of  all  these  forms,  commonly  ap- 
pears as  a  poem  in  three  stanzas  of 
either  eight  or  ten  verses,  followed 
by  an  envoy  in  four  or  five.*  The  rime-sounds  of 
all  the  stanzas  are  the  same,  but  the  rime-words 
distinct.  The  refrain  forms  the  last  verse  of  each 
stanza,  including  the  envoy.  The  favorite  rime- 
scheme  is  ahahhchC,  with  the  envoy  hchC.  One  of 
the  finest  of  English  ballades  is  Chaucer's  on  Truth 
(called  also  ''  Balade  de  bon  conseyl ") ;  of  this  all 
the  stanzas,  including  the  envoy,  are  in  the  seven- 
verse  "  rime  royal  "  form.  Modern  ballades  of  dis- 
tinction are  Rossetti's  translation  of  Villon's  Ballade 
of  Dead  Ladies  (which  contains,  however,  more 
rime-sounds  than  are  permitted  in  the  stricter  form), 
Swinburne's  Ballad  of  Frangois  Villon  (in  ten-line 
stanzas),  and  some  of  those  included  in  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang's  Ballades  of  Blue  China.  There  is  also  an 
extended  form  of  the  ballade,  called  the  Chant 
Royal,  with  five  stanzas  of  eleven  verses,  riming 
ahahccddedE,  and  envoy  ddedE.  Of  this  form  Mr. 
Gleeson  White  observes :  "  The  chant  royal  in  the 
old  form  is  usually  devoted  to  the  unfolding  of  an 
allegory  in  its  five  stanzas,  the  envoy  supplying  the 
key;  but  this  is  not  always  observed  in  modern  ex- 

*  The  envoy  was  formerly  addressed  to  the  "  Prince  "  in  whose 
service  the  courtly  poet  was  writing,  and  the  modem  ballade  often 
imitates  this  conventional  address.  Occasionally  the  envoy  is 
omitted. 


FRENCH  LYRICAL  FORMS.  337 

amples.  Whatever  be  the  subject,  however,  it  must 
always  march  in  stately  rhythm  with  splendid  im- 
agery, using  all  the  poetic  adornments  of  sonorous, 
highly-wrought  lines  and  rich  embroidery  of  words, 
to  clothe  a  theme  in  itself  a  lofty  one.  Unless  the 
whole  poem  is  constructed  with  intense  care,  the 
monotony  of  its  sixty-one  *  lines  rhymed  on  five 
sounds  is  unbearable."  (Introduction  to  Ballades 
and  Rondeaus,  p.  liv.)  An  admirable  example  is 
Mr.  Gosse's  Praise  of  Dionysus. 

The  Sestina,  most  difficult  of  all  these  artificial 
forms,  is  a  poem  in  six  stanzas  of  six  verses,  with 
an  envoy  or  conclusion  of  three  verses. 

rr^,  .  r     '  1  11  The  sestinai 

1  here  is  no  refram,  and  usually  no 
rime,  but  the  end-words  in  all  the  stanzas  are 
the  same,  while  in  the  concluding  tercet  the  same 
six  words  are  used  for  the  seventh  time, — three  of 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  verses,  the  other  three  at 
the  end.  The  order  of  the  end-words  in  each  stanza 
changes  according  to  an  intricate  scheme:  thus  if 
the  end-words  of.  the  first  stanza  be  represented  by 
ABCDEF,  the  order  in  the  second  stanza  will  be 
FAEBDC,  in  the  third  CFDABE,  in  the  fourth 
ECBFAD,  in  the  fifth  DEACFB,  in  the  sixth 
BDFECA.  Rarely  the  end-words  rime  by  twos  or 
threes.  Interesting  examples  of  this  form  are  a 
Sestina  by  Mr.  Gosse,  in  which  he  relates  the  tradi- 
tional origin  of  the  type  as  the  invention  of  the 

*  Sic  ;  apparently  for  sixty. 


338  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

troubadour  Arnaut  Daniel,  and  Kipling's  Sestina  of 
the  Tramp  Royal. 

The  Pantoum  (which  belongs  to  this  group,  al- 
though it  is  ultimately  of  Malaysian   rather  than 
European  origin)   is  a  form  of  an  in- 

The  pantoum.  i   .  •       .  i  r     .  re 

determmate  number  of  stanzas  of  four 
verses,  riming  alternately.  The  second  and  fourth 
verses  of  each  stanza  are  repeated  as  the  first  and 
third  of  the  succeeding  stanza,  while  the  second 
and  fourth  of  the  last  stanza  are  repetitions  of  the 
first  and  third  of  the  first  stanza.  Thus  each  line  is 
used  twice,  and  the  end  of  the  poem  returns  to  the 
beginning.  For  obvious  reasons,  this  form  is  used 
chiefly  to  describe  any  dull  round  of  repetition. 
Perhaps  the  best  of  English  pantoums  is  the  Mono- 
logue d'outre  Tomhe,  published  in  the  collection 
called  Love  in  Idleness  (1883). 

The  best  account  of  these  artificial  French  forms 
will  be  found  in  Mr.  Gleeson  White's  Introduction  to 
the  anthology  called  Ballades  and  Rondeaus.  Other 
discussions  of  their  history  and  qualities  occur  in  Mr. 
Austin  Dobson's  "  Note  on  Some  Foreign  Forms  of 
Verse,"  in  the  anthology  called  Latter  Day  Lyrics, 
and  in  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old 
France.  Of  Mr.  Dobson's  remarks  the  following  are 
of  special  interest :  "  It  may  be  conceded  that  the  ma- 
jority of  the  forms  now  in  question  are  not  at  present 
suited  for.  .  .  .  the  treatment  of  grave  or  elevated 
themes.  What  is  modestly  advanced  for  them.  ...  is 
that  they  may  add  a  new  charm  of  buoyancy, — a  lyric 
freshness, — to  amatory  and  familiar  verse  already  too 


THE  ODE,  339 

much  condemned  to  faded  measures  and  out-worn 
cadences.  Further,  .  .  .  that  they  are  admirable 
vehicles  for  the  expression  of  trifles  or  jeiix  d'esprit. 
They  have  also  a  humbler  and  obscurer  use.  If,  to 
quote  the  once-hackneyed,  but  now  too-much-forgotten 
maxim  of  Pope — 

*  Those  move  easiest  that  have  learned  to  dance,' 
what  better  discipline,  among  others,  could  possibly  be 
devised  for  *  those  about  to  versify  '  than  a  course  of 
Rondeaux,  Triolets,  and  Ballades?"  {Latter  Day 
Lyrics,  p.  334.)  Mr.  Gleeson  White,  in  pointing  out 
the  need  for  strict  observance  of  the  rules  of  these 
forms,  observes :  ''  No  one  is  compelled  to  use  these 
complex  forms,  but  if  chosen,  their  laws  must  be 
obeyed  to  the  letter  if  success  is  to  be  obtained.  The 
chief  pleasure  they  yield  consists  in  the  apparent 
spontaneity,  which  is  the  result  of  genius,  if  genius 
be  indeed  the  art  of  taking  infinite  pains ;  or,  if  that 
definition  is  rejected,  they  must  yet  exhibit  the  art 
which  conceals  art,  whether  by  intense  care  in  every 
minute  detail,  or  a  happy  faculty  for  wearing  these 
fetters."     {Ballades  and  Rondeaus,  p.  li.) 

Finally  we  have  to  consider  the  Ode,  the  most 
extensive  of  the  metrical  forms  characterized  by 
stanzaic  elements,  and  at  the  opposite 
extreme  from  the  sonnet,  the  ballade, 
and  the  like,  in  respect  to  limits  of  length  and  fixity 
of  form.  In  the  first  place  it  must  be  noted  that 
the  term  Ode  is  used  with  special  reference  to  the 
content  and  style  of  poetry  as  w^ell  as  to  its  metrical 
form ;  on  this  aspect  of  the  ode,  see  chapter  ii. 
Looked  at  from  the  standpoint  of  external  form,  the 


340  ^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ode  is  a  lyrical  type  which  preserves  traces  of  its 
musical  origin,  being  divided  into  stanzas  or — more 
properly — strophes  of  varying  length  and  metrical 
character,  which  (theoretically  at  least)  might  be 
sung  to  different  forms  of  melody.  Two  different 
types  are  at  once  to  be  distinguished :  the  regular, 
in  which  certain  strophic  forms  are  chosen  and 
rigorously  followed,  and  the  irregular,  in  which 
strophic  formation  changes  from  point  to  point, 
obeying  no  law  save  the  suggestiveness  of  the  theme 
and  the  emotion  of  the  poet. 

The  regular  or  strict  '^  Pindaric  "  ode  is  modeled 

after  Greek  forms,  and,  like  them,  is  usually  divided 

into  three  types  of  stanza,  the  strophe. 

The  strict  antistrophe,  and  epode,  which  may  be  re- 

Pmdanc  type.  .  , 

peated  indeterminately.  The  strophe  and 
antistrophe  are  properly  of  the  same  metrical  form, 
the  epode  of  a  different  form ;  when  each  recurs,  the 
same  scheme  is  repeated,  but  wath  new  rimes  and  a 
further  development  of  thought.*  All  these  stanzaic 
forms  are  commonly  of  the  more  elaborate  sort, 
containing  from  seven  or  eight  to  twenty  or  thirty 
verses,  with  great  variety  in  metrical  length  and 
arrangement  of  rime.  This  variety  and  freedom 
may  be  thought  peculiarly  appropriate  for  the  ex- 
pression of  an  exalted  emotional  theme;  while  on 

*  The  epode  is  usually  in  more  regular  continuous  metre  than  the 
strophe  and  antistrophe.  It  is  variously  placed;  sometimes  (as  in 
Collins's  Ode  to  Liberty)  h^iween  strophe  and  antistrophe;  some- 
times a  single  epode  is  used  as  the  conclusion  to  the  ode. 


THE  ODE. 


341 


the  other  hand  the  regular  progression  and  balance 
of  the  several  strophes,  viewed  as  wholes,  seem  to 
restrain  the  poetical  utterance  under  the  guidance  of 
a  dominating  intellectual  control.  The  leading  ex- 
amples of  English  odes  of  this  character  are  Collins's 
Ode  to  Liberty,  Gray's  Progress  of  Poesy,  and 
Shelley's  Ode  to  Naples."^  The  first  of  these  consists 
of  a  single  strophe  and  antistrophe,  of  twenty-five 
verses  each  (varying  from  four  to  six  stresses),  and 
two  epodes  in  four-stress  couplets;  the  second,  of 
three  groups  of  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode,  the 
strophes  and  antistrophes  containing  twelve  verses, 
the  epodes  seventeen,  all  in  varying  metrical 
schemes;  the  third,  of  four  epodes  and  six  strophes 
and  antistrophes,  the  former  varying  from  twenty- 
two  to  twenty-nine  verses,  the  latter  alternating  be- 
tween fourteen  and  eleven.  In  more  recent  poetry 
such  regular  odes  are  very  rare.  The  intricacy  of 
their  structure  is  so  considerable  that  it  cannot  be 
perceived  by  the  ear,  or  its  perfection  be  readily  un- 
derstood, unless  the  imagination  is  able  to  conceive 
the  ode  as  uttered  with  corresponding  movements  of 
music  and  choral  dancing,  as  in  the  ancient  manner. 
When  regularity  of  form  is  attained  on  too  large  a 
scale  to  be  apprehended  by  the  senses,  it  is  hardly 
distinguishable  from  irregularity. 

*  Coleridge's  Ode  to  the  Departitif^  Year  assumes  the  regular  Pin- 
daric form,  and  is  divided  into  "  strophes,"  "  antistrophes,"  and 
"  epodes,"  but  they  follow  no  regular  scheme. 


342  ^N  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Between  the  regular  and  the  irregular  ode  is  a 

group  of  odes  based  on  a  single  type  of  elaborate 

strophe,  which  may  vary  slightly  in  the 

The  homo-  course  of  the  poem,  but  not  sufficiently 

strophic  type.  ^  •' 

to  result  in  contrasted  types.  Examples 
are  Spenser's  two  great  marriage  odes,  the  Prothct- 
lamion  and  Epithalamion:  in  the  former  all  the 
strophes  are  of  eighteen  verses,  with  the  funda- 
mental rime  scheme  ahhaahchchddedeeff,  the  fifth, 
tenth,  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  verses  being  shortened 
to  three  stresses,  and  with  some  variation  of  the 
rime  scheme  in  certain  strophes;  in  the  latter  the 
strophes  vary  from  seventeen  to  nineteen  verses,  and 
are  based  on  a  similar  elaborate  rime  scheme  which 
varies  slightly  in  different  parts  of  the  poem. 
Collins's  ode  on  The  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands 
is  in  a  similar  stanza  of  seventeen  verses,  riming 
abbacdcdefefghghh;  Coleridge's  Ode  to  France  in 
a  similar  stanza  of  twenty-one  verses,  riming 
abb  acdcdeefgfgh  ihjjij. 

The  irregular  ode  (formerly  often  called  ''Pin- 
daric," because  of  a  mistaken  impression  that  the 

odes  of  Pindar  were  without  fixed 
The^irregnlar      strophic  form  or  order)    is  written  in 

strophes  similar  to  those  just  considered, 
but  each  stands  quite  by  itself  in  respect  to  length 
and  rime  scheme.  This  form  therefore  preserves 
and  enlarges  the  opportunity  for  adapting  the  metri- 
cal form  flexibly  to  the  ebb  and  flow  of  emotional 
utterance,  but  loses  the  restraint  which  imposes  a 


THE  ODE.  343 

kind  of  logical  order  upon  the  movement  of  the 
poem.  The  result  is  limitless  opportunity  in  the 
hands  of  a  skilful  craftsman,  but  dangerous  license 
in  the  hands  of  one  whose  sense  of  form  is  in  need 
of  guidance.  Cowley,  the  founder  of  the  irregular 
ode,  amusingly  described  its  character  in  one  of  his 
own  experiments  in  the  form : 

"  '  Tis  an  unruly  and  a  hard-mouth'd  horse,  .  .  . 

Now  prances  stately,  and  anon  flies  o'er  the  place; 
Disdains  the  servile  law  of  any  settled  pace ; 
Conscious  and  proud  of  his  own  natural  force, 

'Twill  no  unskilful  touch  endure, 
But  flings  writer  and  reader  too  tliat  sits  not  sure." 
(Ode  on  The  Resurrection.) 

Notwithstanding  this  dangerous  freedom,  some 
of  the  most  splendid  lyrics  of  modern  English  poetry 
have  assumed  the  form  of  the  irregular  ode.  Their 
success  appears  to  be  due  to  a  definite  progression  of 
thought  which  maintains  the  unity  and  consecutive- 
ness  of  the  poem,  while  the  shifting  strophic  struc- 
ture and  metrical  variety  permit  the  form  to 
represent  the  tension  and  relaxation  of  the  poet's 
emotion.*  Important  examples  are  Dryden's  ode 
on  Mistress  Killigrew,  in  ten  irregular  strophes 
varying  in  length  from  thirteen  to  thirty-nine  verses ; 
Wordsworth's  ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality, 
in  eleven  strophes  varying  from  eight  to  thirty-nine 
verses;  Tennyson's  ode  on  The  Death  of  Welling- 

*  See,  on  this  subject,  chapter  ii,  p.  6^  above. 


344  "^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

ton,  in  nine  movements  (the  longer  of  which  can 
hardly  be  called  strophes)  varying  from  five  to 
seventy  verses,  and  Lowell's  Commemoration  Ode, 
in  twelve  movements  varying  from  fourteen  to  sixty 
verses.*  In  the  Wellington  ode  the  progress  from 
part  to  part  is  based,  to  some  degree,  upon  the  rep- 
resented movement  of  time,  the  poet's  comment  fol- 
lowing the  burial  of  the  Duke  from  the  starting  of 
the  funeral  pageant  until 

"  The  black  earth  yawns,  the  mortal  disappears." 

In  the  other  instances  the  progress  is  chiefly  spiri- 
tual; yet  in  the  Immortality  ode  there  is  also  a  sug- 
gestion of  movement  in  time,  the  poem  taking  its 
rise  in  a  memory  of  childhood  experiences,  passing 
through  the  reflections  inspired  by  a  May  day  in 
maturer  years,  through  various  changes  of  emotion, 
to  the  concluding  pause  among 

"  Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

Of  this  great  ode  Professor  Corson  observes: 
"  The  several  metres  are  felt  .  .  .  to  be  or- 
ganic— inseparable  from  what  each  is  employed  to 
express.  .  .  .  Wordsworth  never  wrote  any 
poem  of  which  it  can  be  more  truly  said,  *  Of  the 
soul  the  body  form  doth  take.'  "     {Primer  of  En- 

*  Not  unworthy  to  be  set  beside  these  is  the  recent  ode  by  Mr. 
W.  V.  Moody,  called  An  Ode  in   Time  of  Hesitation. 


THE  ODE. 


345 


glish  Verse,  pp.  32,  34.)  On  the  other  hand, 
Theodore  Watts,  while  admitting  that  it  is  "  the 
finest  irregular  ode  in  the  language,"  finds  that  **  the 
length  of  the  lines  and  the  arrangement  of  the  rimes 
are  not  always  inevitable;  they  are,  except  on  rare 
occasions,  governed  neither  by  stanzaic  nor  by  emo- 
tional law."  (Article  on  Poetry  in  Encyc.  Brit.) 
The  difference  has  to  do  with  a  point  of  intangible 
aesthetic  judgment.  Whichever  view  be  taken 
as  to  the  expressiveness  of  the  details  of  the 
metrical  structure,  the  ImmortaUty  ode  is  one  of 
the  noblest  examples  of  the  way  in  which  the  ode 
form  develops  progressively  a  single  theme,  and  at 
the  same  time  marks,  in  the  series  of  strophic  varia- 
tions, the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  emotions  gathering 
about  that  theme  as  it  is  elaborated  in  the  poet's 
consciousness. 

Of  a  different  type  are  certain  choral  lyrics  some- 
times used  in  the  drama,  directly  imitative  of  the 
choral  odes  which  played  so  important  a 
part  in  the  Greek  tragedy.     The  most   ^he^choral 
important     examples     are     the     choral 
odes  in  Milton's  Samson  Agonistes,  divided  into 
"  choruses "    and    ''  semi-choruses,"    in    which    the 
varying    verse-lengths     (sometimes    used    without 
rime,  as  in  the  Greek)  are  modeled  after  the  flexible 
musical  rhythms  of  the  choruses  of  ^schylus  and 
Sophocles.    Similar  examples  are  certain  portions  of 
Browning's  Agamemnon  and  Arnold's  Empedocles 
on  Etna. 


346  '^^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

Related  to  the  irregular  ode  in  metrical  quality 

are  a  large  number  of  poems,  chiefly  of  rather  recent 

date,  which  may  be  regarded  as  the  re- 

EeiatediTTegiaaj  g^^j^   ^f  ^^   ^^^^^   ^^   develop  metrical 

Terse  lorms.  ^ 

forms  capable  of  adapting  themselves 
more  flexibly  to  the  movement  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing than  the  standard  forms  with  fixed  stanzaic 
structure.  Examples  of  such  irregular  strophic 
formation  will  be  found,  with  rimed  verse,  in  South- 
ey's  Curse  of  Kehama,  Arnold's  Dover  Beach  and 
The  Buried  Life,  Tennyson's  Revenge,  Browning's 
Herve  Riel,  Swinburne's  Thalassiiis,  and  many  of 
the  poems  of  Coventry  Patmore  {The  Unknozvn 
Eros,  and,  among  shorter  poems,  Amelia  and  The 
Toys);  with  unrimed  verse,  in  Southey's  Thalaha, 
Shelley's  Queen  Mab,  Arnold's  The  Future  and 
Philomela,  and  many  of  the  poems  of  the  late 
W.  E.  Henley.  As  to  the  more  daring  of  these  ex- 
periments critical  opinion  is  strongly  divided.  In 
general,  two  things  seem  fairly  certain:  first,  that 
such  irregular  measures  are  likely  to  be  more  pleas- 
ing with  rime  than  without  it;  second,  that  these 
forms  can  be  regarded  as  legitimate  only  in  so  far  as 
they  seem  really  to  represent  the  content  and  the 
emotional  movement  of  the  poem,  and  not  to  be  by 
any  possibility  the  result  of  accident  or  imperfect 
fashioning.  Even  when  admittedly  pleasing,  such 
formless  poems  are  likely  to  approach  the  point 
where  the  great  function  of  art — to  give  unity  and 
order  to  the  chaotic  data  of  life — seems  to  have  lost 


THE  ODE.  347 

its  power.  It  is  from  this  standpoint  that  Professor 
Lewis  criticises  some  of  the  romantically  lawless 
verse  of  Mr.  Henley :  "  There  is  no  pleasure  in 
the  successive  gratification  and  disappointment  of  the 
reader's  expectation,  for  the  reader  is  not  en- 
couraged to  form  any  expectations  whatever;  there 
is  no  conflict  between  the  rhythm  and  the  metrical 
scheme,  for  there  is  no  metrical  scheme.  .  .  . 
The  fact  is  that  within  the  limits  of  a  fixed  form 
there  is  ample  scope  for  freedom,  and  to  reject 
form  altogether  generally  suggests  artistic  deca- 
dence rather  than  strength."  {Principles  of  En- 
glish Verse,  p.  loo.) 

Discussions  of  the  various  ode  forms  will  be  found 
in  the  introductions  to  Mr.  Gosse's  English  Odes  and 
William  Sharp's  Great  Odes,  in  Professor  Bronson's 
introduction  to  the  Athenaeum  Press  edition  of  Col- 
lins, and  Coventry  Patmore's  Preface  to  The  Un- 
knozvn  Eros.  The  choral  odes  of  Milton  are  analyzed 
by  Bridges  in  Milton's  Prosody,  and  are  commented 
on  by  Swinburne  in  his  Essays  and  Studies.  "  It  is 
hard  to  realize  and  hopeless  to  reproduce  the  musical 
force  of  classic  metres  so  recondite  and  exquisite  as 
the  choral  parts  of  a  Greek  play.  Even  Milton  could 
not;  though  with  his  godlike  instinct  and  his  godlike 
might  of  hand  he  made  a  kind  of  strange  and  enor- 
mous harmony  by  intermixture  of  assonance  and 
rhyme  with  irregular  blank  verse."  (p.  162.)  Bron- 
son,  commenting  on  the  artificial  character  of  the  strict 
Pindaric  ode  in  English,  observes :  "  The  reason  is  ob- 
vious. The  Greek  odes  were  accompanied  by  music 
and  dancing,  the  singers  moving  to  one  side  during  the 


348  ^J^  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY. 

strophe,  retracing  their  steps  during  the  antistrophe 
(which  was  for  that  reason  metrically  identical  with 
the  strophe),  and  standing  still  during  the  epode. 
The  ear  was  thus  helped  by  the  eye,  and  the  divisions 
of  the  ode  were  distinct  and  significant.  But  in  an 
English  Pindaric  the  elaborate  correspondences  and 
differences  between  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode 
are  lost  upon  most  readers,  and  even  the  critical 
reader  derives  from  them  a  pleasure  intellectual  rather 
than  sensuous."  (Introduction  to  Collins,  p.  Ixxv. 
In  the  same  section  the  metrical  forms  of  the  odes  of 
Collins  are  elaborately  analyzed.) 

Finally,  with  reference  to  the  tendency  toward  ir- 
regular metrical  forms,  one  may  note  some  inter- 
esting remarks  of  Mr.  Courthope,  in  his  lectures 
on  Life  in  Poetry,  on  the  subject  of  "eccentric"  or 
"  private  "  art  forms  as  connected  with  the  want  of  a 
truly  universal  or  representative  character  in  poetic 
expression.  Such  tendencies,  in  his  view,  are  due  to 
the  exaggeration  of  individualism,  and  a  neglect  of  the 
more  than  national  character  which  poetry  normally 
has,  as  conforming  to  the  traditions  of  a  particular 
race,  language,  and  literature.  Addressing  Walt 
Whitman,  in  reply  to  his  lines  opening — 

"  Oneself  I  sing,  a  simple,  separate  person," 

Mr.  Courthope  says :  "  If  you  had  anything  of  uni- 
versal interest  to  say  about  yourself,  you  could  say  it 
in  a  way  natural  to  one  of  the  metres,  or  metrical  move- 
ments, established  in  the  English  language.  What  you 
call  metre  bears  precisely  the  same  relation  to  these 
universal  laws  of  expression,  as  the  Mormon  Church 
and  the  religion  of  Joseph  Smith  and  Brigham  Young 
bear  to  the  doctrines  of  Catholic  Christendom."    To 


THE  ODE,  349 

the  same  effect  are  the  observations  of  Dorchain  in  his 
L'Art  des  Vers  (chap,  xvi),  on  the  so-called  "vers 
lihres"  of  certain  French  writers.  "  If  the  end  of  all 
art  is,  in  the  words  of  a  certain  philosopher,  to  produce 
*  an  aesthetic  emotion  of  a  social  character,'  we  have 
seen  these  writers  come  near  accomplishing  the 
paradox  implied  in  the  words — '  anti-social  art.'  " 


(J,U*>tt«-^  15^ 


APPENDIX. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  critical  works  to  which  reference  is 
made  in  the  foregoing  chapters. 

Abbott,    E.    A. :    A   Shakespearian    Grammar.     (Second    edition.) 

London,  1870. 
Addison,  J.:    Essay  on   Poetic  Justice,  in    The  Spectator ^  No.  40; 

April  16,  1711.     In  Chalmers's  British  Essayists,  vol.  v. 
Alden,  R.  M. :  English    Verse;  Specimens  illustrating  its  Principles 

and  History.     N.  Y.,  1903. 
Alexander,  H.  B.  :  Poetry  and  the  Individual.     N.  V.  and  L.,  1906. 
Allen,  Grant:  Physiological  Aesthetics.     N.  Y.,  1877. 
Aristotle  :  Poetics.     (See  Butcher.) 

Arnold,  Matthew  :   Essay  on  The  Study  of  Poetry,  in  Essays  in  Criti- 
cism, Second  Series.     L.  and  N.  Y.,  1888. 
Essay  on  Wordsworth,  ibid. 
On  Translating  Homer.     London,  1861. 
Austin,  Alfred  :    The  Human  Tragedy.     London,  18S9. 
Bacon,  Francis:   Of  the   Proficience  and  Advancement  of  Learning. 

1605.     In  Bacon's  Works,  edited  by  Spedding,  Ellis,  and  Heath, 

vol.  iii.     London,  1889-1892. 
Beers,  H.  A. :  Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.     N.  Y.,  1901. 
Benard,  C. :  La  Poetique par  W.  F.  Hegel.     Paris,  1855. 
Blackie,  J.  S. :  Horae  Hellenicae.     London,  1874. 
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353 


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358 


APPENDIX, 


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INDEX, 


Abbott,  E.  A.,  on  Shakspere's 
verse,  245. 

Accent,  its  nature  in  English, 
165  n.;  altered  to  fit  metre,  167- 
173;  degrees  of,  r66,  167;  ety- 
mological and  rhetorical  dis- 
tinguished, 165,  166;  laws  of, 
in  English  verse,  171-173;  re- 
lation of  to  quantity,  178-180, 
187-190. 

Addison,  J.,  Cato,  84  n. ;  on  the 
imagination,  94 ;  on  poetic 
justice,  89. 

Akenside,  M.,  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,  22. 

Alcaic  verse,  288,  322. 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  Thalta,  73. 

Alexander,  H.  K.,  on  epic  poetry, 
48  n.;  on  the  imagination,  104; 
on  tragedy,  90. 

Alexandrine  verse,  276. 

Allegory,  147,  148. 

Allen,  G.,  on  poetical  style,  139  n.; 
on  tone-quality,  218. 

Alliteration,  209. 

Alliterative  long  line,  268, 

Amphibrach,  234. 

Anacrusis,  255-257. 

Anapest,  223. 

Anapestic  metres,  277-280 ;  free- 
dom and  variety  of,  252;  rela- 
tion of  to  dactylic,  228;  rela- 
tion of  to  iambic,  230. 

Ariosto,  Oflando  Furioso,   107. 

Aristotle,  on  epic  poetry,  45  ;  on 
metre,  17  ;  on  poetic  imitation, 
9,  ir,  12;  on  poetry  compared 
with  history,  116;  on  tragedy, 
79,  80,  87n. ;  on  the  unities,  85. 

Aristophanes,  anapestic  verse  of, 
278  n. 


Arnold,  M,,  Buried  Life,  346; 
Do7'c-r  Beach,  346;  hast  Lon- 
don, 327  ;  Empedocles  on  Etna, 
345  ;  Forsaken  Merman,  54,  96, 
247,  248;  Future,  346;  Moral- 
'0'^  j^S"  Philomela,  346 ;  Rugby 
Chapel,  66,  129,  130;  Scholar- 
Gypsy,  319;  Sohrab  and  Rus- 
tum,  48,  53;  Thyrsi s,  69,  319; 
Tristram  and  Iseult,  52  ;  on 
dactylic  hexameter,  286 ;  on 
the  nature  of  poetry,  2. 

Art,  basis  of  in  imitation  and 
creation,  4,  9;  universal  quality 
of,  12;  relation  of  to  beauty, 
112,  115. 

Arts,  plastic,  compared  with 
poetry,  5-8. 

Assonance,  210. 

Austin,  A.,  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  3. 

Bacon,  F.,  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  9,  11,  19,  116. 

Ballad,  50,  51. 

Ballade,  336. 

Battle  of  Otterburn,  51. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Knight 
of  the  Burning  Pestle,  92  ;  Phi- 
iaster,  91. 

Beauty,  place  of  in  poetry,  112- 
117;  relation  of  to  style,  141; 
relation  of  to  rhythm,  193- 
195  ;  relation  of  to  sounds  of 
verse,  217;  relation  of  to  truth, 
117;  relation  of  to  ugliness, 
IT4,  115- 

Beers,  H.  A.,  on  the  Bowles  con- 
troversy, 127. 

Belden,  H.  M.,  on  Donne's  verse, 
174.  175- 


359 


360 


INDEX. 


Benard,  C,  La  Poetique  par 
Hegel,  see  Hegel. 

Beounilf,  43. 

Blackie,  J.  S.,  on  dactylic  hex- 
ameter, 285. 

Blank  verse,  271-276;  use  of  in 
narrative  poetry,  274 ;  in  the 
drama,  76;  flexibility  of,  252; 
syllabic  regularity  of,  240  n., 
245,  272  n. 

Blo7t\  1107'thcrn  Tuuid,  319. 

Boltoti,  T.  L.,  on  the  nature  of 
rhythm,  I57n. 

Bossu,  R.  le,  on  epic  poetry,  45. 

Bowles,  S.,  on  the  subject  matter 
of  poetry,  127. 

Bradley,  A.  C,  on  tragedy,  79,  90. 

Bridges,  R.,  Thou  didst  delight  my 
eyesy  313;  on  dactylic  hexam- 
eter, 285;  on  Milton's  verse, 
245  n.,  347  ;  on  stress  as  the 
basis  of  metre,  224;  on  syllabic 
verse,  272  n. 

Bright,  J.  W.,  on  secondary  ac- 
cent, 173,  174. 

Bronson,  W.  C,  on  the  Pindaric 
ode,  347. 

Brown,  G.  D.,  on  secondary  ac- 
cent, 174. 

Browning,  E.  B.,  Cry  of  the  Chil- 
dren, 248 ;  Dead  Rose,  310 ;  Son- 
nets, 327. 

Browning,  R.  B. :  Abt  Vogler,  35, 
66;  Agamemnon,  345;  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  35 ;  Boy  and  the 
Angel,  306 ;  Caliban  tipon  Sete- 
bos,  114,  214;  Cavalier  Tunes, 
63,  282 ;  Childe  Roland  to  the 
Dark  Tower  Came,  -y-W  Con- 
fessional, 35,  312;  Dramatic 
Lyrics,  34  ;  Evelyn  LJope,  1 3  ; 
Fifine  at  the  Fair,  yj,  1 19,  276  ; 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  35  ;  Guard- 
ian Angel,  3f  5  ;  Heretic's  Tra- 
gedy, 214;  Herve  Riel,  54,  346; 
James  Lee''s  Wife,  36 ;  La 
Saisiaz,  281  ;  Love  Among  the 
Ruins,  281;  One  Word  More, 
282 ;  Paracelsus,  250  ;  Pippa 
Passes,  81  ;  Prospice,   65,    246  ; 


Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  37,  144,  313; 
Ring  and  the  Book,  36,  120, 
124,  250;  Saj{l,  279,  280;  Sor- 
dello,  49,  270  ;  Statue  and  the 
Bust,  301  ;  Two  in  the  Cam- 
pagna,  35,  312;  decasyllabic 
couplet  of,  270  ;  dramas  of,  82  ; 
tone-quality  in  verse  of,  214; 
triple  rimes  of,  293;  on  truth 
as  related  to  art,  119,  120. 

Brunetiere,  F.,  on  the  lyric,  65  n. 

Burlesque  drama,  92. 

Burns,  R.,  Auld  Lang  Syne,  185; 
Birks  of  Aberfeldy,  319;  Bon- 
nie Doon,  308  ;  Cotter'' s  Satur- 
day N'ight,  55  ;  Duncan  Gray, 
320  •,John  Anderson,  320  ;  Tarn 
CShanter,  54  ;  To  a  Louse,  40  ; 
To  a  Mouse,  314  ;  To  Mary  in 
Heaven,  57  ;  songs  of,  63  ;  sub- 
ject matter  of  poetry  widened 
by,  126. 

Butcher,  S.  H.,  on  Aristotle's 
theory  of  poetry,  11,  12,  17; 
on  primitive  Greek  poetry,  30 ; 
on  tragic  katharsis,  88  n. 

Butler,  S.,  Hudibras,  50. 

Byron,  Lord,  Cain,  264  n. ;  Childe 
Harold,  55,  318  ;  Destruction  of 
Sennacherib,  278  ;  Don  Juan, 
52,  316;  Farewell,  if  ever  fond- 
est prayer,  316;  Isles  of  Greece, 
64;  Manfred,  ^\',  She  Walks 
in  Beauty,  313;  Stanzas  to 
Augusta,  57;  dramas  of,  82; 
romances  of,  52;  satiric  poetry 
of,  40;  on  the  subject  matter 
of  poetry,  1 27 ;  triple  endings 
and  rimes  of,  256,  292. 

Caine,  H.,  on  the  sonnet,  331, 
Calverley,  C.    S.,  vers  de  societe 

of,  -JT,. 
Campion,     T.,     pseudo-classical 

verse  of,  322. 
Carew,  T.,  vers  de  societe  of,  73. 
Carey,  H.,  Sally   in   our   Alley, 

320. 
Carlyle,    T.,    on    the   nature   of 

poetry,  3. 


INDEX. 


361 


Carpenter,  F.  I.,  on  lyric  poetry, 

59- 

Catalexis,  255,  262. 

Cayley,  C.  15.,  Divina  Commedia, 
301. 

Cesura,  258-261  ;  in  alexandrine 
verse,  276;  in  septenary  verse, 
277. 

Chant  royal,  336. 

Chapman,  G.,  Iliad,  277. 

Chatterton,  T.,  yElla,  318. 

Chaucer,  Ci.,  Ballade  of  Triith, 
336;  Canterbury  Tales,  ^2,  55; 
7  roil  us  and  Cressida,  52  ;  dec- 
asyllabic verse  of,  269;  fem- 
minine  rimes  of,  292 ;  imagina- 
tion of,  107  ;  rime  royal  stanza 
of,  314  ;  his  use  of  the  term 
tragedy,  86  n. 

Chopin,  F.,  tempo  rtibaio  of,  188. 

Choriambus,  235. 

Chronicle  plays,  82. 

Cid,  43. 

Clark,  J.,  on  epic  poetry,  45. 

Classical  drama,  82-85. 

Closet  drama,  81. 

Clough,  A.  H.,  Bothie  of  Tober- 
na-Vuoliih,  52  n.,  2'S>2\Ste  Jtur, 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  Auaent  Man- 
ner, 51,  126,  152,  153,  294; 
Christabel,  107,  182,  268;  Ode 
to  France,  342  ;  Ode  to  the  De- 
parting Year,  341  n.  ;  Satyr ane 
Letter Sy  275;  Shakspere  Lec- 
tures, 85;  imagination  of,  107  ; 
on  the  function  of  metre,  136, 
203  ;  on  imagination  and  fancy, 
108-111  ;  on  the  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads, 126;  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  i,  18  n. ;  on  the  term 
poetry,  15  n. ;  on  poetic  diction, 

134-136- 

Collins,  J.  C,  on  tragedy,  90. 

Collins,  W.,  Ode  to  Evening,  65, 
146,  302  ;  Ode  to  Liberty,  67, 
340  n.,  341  ;  Ode  on  the  Pas- 
sions, 147  ;  Superstitions  of  the 
Highlands,  342. 

Combarieu,  J.,  on  the  relation  of 


music  and  poetr)',  8 ;  on  the 
relation  of  rhythm  and  emo- 
tion, 196  n. 

Comedy,  85,  86. 

Common  metre  quatrain,  277, 
306  n. 

Communal  poetry,  28,  50. 

Concreteness  in  poetical  style, 
138-142. 

Consonants,  place  of  in  tone- 
quality,  209-212. 

Corneille,  P.,  Discourses,  85  ;  Le 
Cid,  85. 

Corson,  H.,  on  blank  verse,  275  ; 
on  metrical  variation,  249  ;  on 
rime,  299;  on  the  sonnet,  331  ; 
on  Tennyson's  stanzas,  323, 
324;  on  tone-quality,  218;  on 
Wordsworth's  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  344  ;  his  system 
of  stress  notation,  241. 

Courthope,  W.  J.,  on  the  func- 
tion of  metre,  199;  on  irregu- 
lar verse,  348  ;  on  the  nature 
of   poetry,  3;    on    the   sonnet, 

Cowley,  A.,  odes  of,  343;  vers 
de  societe  of,  "jt^. 

Cowper,  W.,  My  Mary,  30S, 
320  ;  (9  for  a  closer  lualk  u<ith 
God,  64  ;  Shrubbery,  308  ;  Task, 
37  ;  didactic  poetry  of,39. 

Creative  imagination,  9,   10,  95- 

97- 
Cummings,  P.,  on  dactyUc  hex- 
ameter, 286. 

Dabney,  J.  P.,  on  musical  nota- 
tion for  verse,  191. 

Dactyl, '223. 

Dactylic  metres,  282-287. 

Daniel,  S.,  Civil  Wars,  49. 

Dante,  Divina  Commedia,  48  n., 
86  n.,   107  ;  terza  rima  of,  301. 

Decasyllabic  couplet,  269-271. 

Decasyllabic  verse,  reason  for 
its  vogue  in  English,  268,  269. 

Descriptive  poetry,  33,  34,  54,  55. 

Dekker,  T.,  O  Sweet  Content,  63. 

Dennis,  J.,  on  poetic  justice,  89. 


362 


INDEX. 


Dickens,  C,  rhythmical  prose  of, 
162,  163. 

Diction  of  poetry,  128-154. 

Didactic  poetry,  37-39. 

Dipody,  trochaic,  236. 

Dirge,  69. 

Ditrochee,  236. 

Dobson,  A.,  Rose  kissed  me  to- 
day, 334  ;  When  I  saw  you  last. 
Rose,  335;  vers  de  societe  of, 
73  ;  on  artificial  French  stanza 
forms,  338;  on  vej-s  de  societe,  72. 

Donne,  J.,  elegies  of,  68;  metre 
of,  174,  175- 

Dorchain,  A.,  on  irregular  verse, 
349;  on  rime,  299. 

Dowden,  E.,  on  the  text  of 
Wordsworth's  poems,  151, 
152  n. 

Dramatic  poetry,  74-92  ;  its  prin- 
cipal kinds,  80-92 ;  use  of 
blank  verse  in,  76,  274,  275; 
decline  of,  78. 

Dramatic  lyric,  35. 

Dramatic  romance,  91. 

Drayton,  M.,  Agincoiirt,  35,  317  ; 
Mortimeriad,  49 ;  Polyolbion, 
276. 

Dryden,  J.,  Absalom  and  Achito- 
phel,  148;  Alexander'' s  Feast, 
68  ;  All  for  Love,  83  ;  Conquest 
of  Granada,  82  ;  Essay  of  Dra- 
matic Poesy,  85  ;  Hijid  and  the 
Panther,  148;  Ode  on  Mistress 
Killigrew,  343  ;  Religio  Laid, 
22,  39  ;  Preface  to  Virgil,  45  ; 
Song  for  St.  Cecilia'' s  Day,  99  ; 
decasyllabic  couplet  of,  271  ; 
odes  of,  67  ;  metrical  romances 
of,  52  ;  satires  of,  40. 

Elegiac  hexameter,  287. 

Elegy,  68,  69. 

Eliot,  G.,  O  may  I  join  the  choir 
invisible,  66. 

Elision,  243-245. 

Ellerton,  J.,  Welcome,  Happy 
Morning,  63. 

Ellis,  A.  J.,  on  metrical  variation, 
252  ;  his  system  of  stress  nota- 
tion, 240. 


Ellis,  R.,  his  imitations  of  clas- 
sical metres,  323. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  on  the  func- 
tion of  metre,  195,  198  ;  on  the 
nature  of  poetry,  2 ;  on  the 
relation  of  poetry  and  truth, 
119;  on  the  subject  matter  of 
poetry,  123. 

Emotion,  relation  of  to  poetry, 
18  ;  relation  of  to  poetical  style, 
1 50-1  S3  ;  relation  of  to  rhythm, 

195-^97-     ^       ^ 

End-pause,  261-264. 

E7ijambement,  263. 

Epic  poetry,  41-55;  the  national 
epic  the  type  oi  par  excellence, 
42-48 ;  related  types,  49-55 ; 
decline  of,  47,  48. 

Epic  simile,  144. 

Erskine,  J.,  on  the  lyric,  61,  65  n. 

Euripides,  Alcestis,  86  n. 

Everett,  C.  C,  on  the  imagina- 
tion, 104. 

Every  Man,   148. 

Expository  poetry,  39. 


Faber,  F.  W.,  religious  lyrics 
of,  64. 

Fable,  54. 

Fancy,  relation  of  to  the  imagina- 
tion,  102-112. 

Feminine  cesura,  259. 

Feminine  ending,  256,  257. 

Feminine  rime,  291. 

Fielding,  H.,  Tom  Thumb  the 
Great,  92. 

Figures  in  poetical  style,  142- 
149. 

Fitzgerald,  E.,  Rubaiyat,  310. 

Five-stress  verse,  rimed,  268-271; 
unrimed,  271-276. 

Fletcher,  J.,  Faithful  Shepherdess, 
41,  81  ;  Wild- Goose  Chase, 
256;  (with  Shakspere)  Two 
A^oble  Kinsmen,  313;  (with 
Beaumont,  see  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher). 

Foot,  significance  of  the  term 
for  English  verse,  222-224, 
239  n.;  the  principal  kinds,  223 . 


INDEX, 


363 


terminology  of  as   related   to 

classical  prosody,  236. 
Four-stress  verse,  syllabic,  266; 

irregular,  267. 
French  lyrical  forms,  332-339. 
Freytag,  G.,  on  the  drama.  So. 

Galliambic  metre,  288. 

Gaste,  A.,  on  the  Cid  contro- 
versy, 85. 

Gay,  J.,  fables  of,  54. 

Gayley,  C.  M.,  on  the  epic,  42  ; 
on  the  nature  of  poetry,  4 ; 
on  rhetorical  figures,  149; 
(with  Scott,  F.  N!)  on  defini- 
tions of  poetry,  4. 

Goethe,  J.  W.  von,  on  prose  in 
tragedy,  201. 

Goldsmith,  O.,  Deserted  Village, 

Goodell,  T.  D.,  on  quantity  in 
English,  189. 

Gosse,  E.,  Praise  of  Dionysus, 
337  ;  Sestina,  ^y]  ;  Would st 
thou  not  he  content  to  die,  335  ; 
on  the  ode,  67,  347. 

Gray,  T.,  Elegy  in  a  Country 
Churchyard,  68,  146,  199,  308; 
Hym7ito  Adversity,  146;  Ode 
on  Eton  College,  319;  Progress 
of  Poesy,  68,  341. 

Guest,  E.,    on    tone-quality,  218. 

Gummere,  F.  B.,  on  the  ballad, 
30;  on  figures  and  tropes, 
142  n;  on  the  function  of  me- 
tre, 17,  205;  on  lyrical  poetry, 
56,  59 ;  on  primitive  poetry, 
29,  30. 

Gurney,  E.,  on  the  function  of 
metre,  203;  on  tone-quality, 
215,  218. 

Guyau,  M.,  on  the  metrical  al- 
teration of  syllables,  188  n.  ;  on 
the  relation  of  rhythm  and 
emotion,  196  n.;  on  rime,  299, 
300. 

Half-stressed  rime,  296. 
Hazlitt,  W.,  on  the  function  of 
metre,  198;  on  the  nature  of 


poetry,  2  ;  on  poetry  and  prose 
distinguished,  24. 
Heber,  R.,  The  Son  of  God  goes 

forth  to  war,  64. 
Hegel,  G.  \V.  Y.,  on  the  classi- 
fication of  poetry,  32 ;  on  the 
drama,  80  ;  on  the  epic,  42,  46; 
on  the  lyric,  60;  on  metre,  17; 
on  poetry  as    related  to  other 
arts,  7  ;  on  truth  and   ideality 
in  poetry,  120,  121. 
Henley,  W.  E.,  A  dainty  thing's 
the  Villanelle,  335  ;   What  is  to 
come,    335;    verse    of,   15,  346, 
347- 
Herbert,  G.,  stanzas  of,  306  n. 
Heroic  couplet,  269,  271. 
Heroic  play,  82. 
Heroic  quatrain,  308. 
Herrick,  R.,  7o  fulia,  307;  vers 

de  societe  of,  ']'i^. 
Hexameter,  dactylic,  282-287. 
History-plays,  82. 
Holmes,  O.  W.,  Dorothy  Q.,  -jt^  ; 

Last  Leaf,  ']'^. 
Homer,  Iliad,  43;   Odyssey,  43. 
Homeric  simile,  144. 
Hood,    T.,    Bridge  of  Sii^hs,  65, 

256,  282,  293. 
Horace,  stanzas  of,  imitated,  322. 
Hovering  accent,  170,  171;. 
How,  W.  W.,  For  all  the  Saijits, 

64. 
Hunt,  L.,  Abou  Ben  Adhetn, 
54;  on  the  function  of  metre, 
194  ;  on  imagination  and  fancy, 
106,  107;  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  2  ;  on  the  sonnet,  331  ; 
on  thesubject  matter  of  poetry, 

Hurst,  A.  S„  on  the  time  rela- 
tions of  various  metres,  229  n. 
Hymn,  63,  64. 


Iambic  metres,  264-277 ;  why 
preferred  in  English  poetry, 
265. 

lambic-anapestic  metre,  246. 

Identical  rime,  298. 


3^4 


INDEX. 


Idyl,  54  n. 

Imagination,  relation  of  to  poe- 
try, 19-21,  93-112;  as  a  form 
of  memory,  93-95 ;  creative, 
95-97;  interpretative,  97-102; 
relation  of  to  fancy,  102-112. 

Imitation  as  a  basis  of  poetry, 
9-12. 

Impeifect  rime,  296-298. 

Ingelow,  J.,  /;/  the  t?iornhig,  O  so 
early,  236. 

Internal  rime,  293-295. 

Inversion  of  feet,  242. 

Irregular  metres,  246-251,  267, 
346-348. 

Italian  sonnet  form,  326. 

Johnson,  S.,  on  the  general  or 
universal  in  poetry,  122;  on 
poetic  justice,  89;  on  tone- 
quality,  216;  on  the  unities, 
85. 

Jonson,  B.,  Drink  to  me  ojily 
with  thine  eyes,  63 ;  masques  of, 
81. 

Kalevala,  43. 

Kames,  Lord,  on  the  unities,  85. 

Katharsis,  Aristotle's  theory  of, 
87  n. 

Keats,  J.,  Atitumn,  66,  147;  En- 
dymion,  270,  271  ;  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes,  54,318;  FiDicy,  281; 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  327, 
328;  Hyperion,  274;  Isabella, 
316;  La  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci,  51;  Lamia,  271;  Mer- 
vuiid  Tavern,  281  ;  Ode  on  a 
Grecian  Urn,  58,  66,  100,  117; 
Ode  to  a  Ni^htini^alc,  66,  319; 
Ode  to  Psyche,  141  ;  Robin 
Hood,  281  ;  decasyllabic  cou- 
plet of,  270,  271  ;  as  the  poet 
of  physical  sensations,  94,  95. 

Kennings,  149. 

Ker,  W.  P-,  on  epic  poetry,  45. 

Ki7ig  Hor7t,  49. 

Kingsley,  C,  Andromeda,  283- 
285;  Three  Fishers,  320. 

Kipling,  R.,  Danny  Deever,  35; 


Last  Chantey,  185,  3i2l  ;  Mc An- 
drew's Hymn,  125;  Aliracles, 
293 ;  Mulholland's  Contract, 
307 ;  Sestina  of  the  Tramp 
Royal,  338  ;  Song  of  the  Eng- 
lish, 235  ;  True  Ro7nance,  317  ; 
the  poetry  of,  13. 
Knight,  W.,  on  the  relation  of 
beauty  to  poetry,  120. 

Lamartine,  A.  de,  Recueille?nents 
Poetiqnes,  204  n. 

Lamb,  C,  Old  Familiar  Faces, 
6^  ;  on  seven-syllable  verse, 
281  n. 

Landor,  \V.  S.,  Againetnnon  and 
Iphigeneia,  48  ;  Gebir,  48 ;  on 
Milton's  sonnets,  71. 

Lang,  A.,  on  artificial  French 
stanza  forms,  T)T,^  ;  Ballades  of 
Blue  China,  336. 

Lanier,  S.,  Ballad  of  Trees  and 
the  Master,  293  ;  on  pauses, 
186;  on  verse  rhythm  as  re- 
lated to  musical  rhythm,  1S9, 
191 ;  on  the  nature  of  rhythm, 
158;  on  tone-quality,  218. 

Larminie,  W.,  on  assonance  and 
rime,  299 ;  on  quantity  in  Eng- 
lish, 189. 

Lay,  49. 

Layamon,  Brut,  49. 

Lessing,  G.  E.,  on  the  drama,  85. 

Lewis,  C.  M.,  on  anapestic  verse, 
280;  on  blank  verse,  275;  on 
irregular  metres,  347  ;  on  Mil- 
ton's verse,  245;  on  prose 
rhythm,  161  ;  on  rime,  299;  on 
the  romantic  couplet,  271  ;  on 
the  sonnet,  332 ;  on  stanza 
forms,  325;  on  tone-quality, 
215;  on  trochaic  rhythm,  266. 

Liddell,  M.  H.,  on  metrical  va- 
riation, 251  ;  on  the  nature  of 
English  verse,  173,  189,  225; 
on  the  nature  of  poetry,  4  ;  on 
the  notation  of  verse,  241 ;  on 
quantity  in  English,  189. 

Light  ending,  263. 

Locker-Lampson,      F.,      To    my 


INDEX. 


365 


Grandmother,  73 ;  on  vers  de 
societe,  73. 

Longfellow,  H.  \V.,  Evangelijie, 
52,  282,  284;  Golden  Legend, 
282;  Hiaivatha,  281;  Maiden- 
hood, 307  ;  Sonnets  on  the 
Divitta  Corn  media,  327, 

Lounsbury,  T.  R.,  on  the  unities, 
84. 

Loz'e  in  Idleness,  338. 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  Commemoration 
Ode,  68,  344  ;  on  the  Spense- 
rian stanza,  324. 

Lyric  poetry,  55-73 ;  the  true  or 
song  type,  62-64 :  related  types, 
64-73;  metrical  characteristics 
of,  58,  59,  252. 

Lyrical    ballad,  34,  35. 

Lytton,  Lord  (Owen  Meredith),' 
Indian  Love  Song,  316  ;  Lncile, 
52  n. 

McKay,  J.,  on  the  time  relations 
of  various  metres,  229  n. 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  Horatius,  129, 
130  ;  on  the  nature  of  poetry,  2. 

Mahahharata,  43. 

Marlowe,  C,  Doctor  Faustus, 
199. 

Marsh,  A.  R.,  on  the  epic,  45. 

Marvell,  A.,  Ode  on  CromweWs 
Return,  309. 

Masculine  cesura,  259. 

Masculine  rime,  291. 

Masque,  81. 

Masson,  1).,  on  Aristotle's  and 
Bacon's  theories  of  poetry,  i  r  ; 
on  concreteness  as  a  poetical 
quality,  139;  on  the  function 
of  metre,  204;  on  Milton's 
verse,  244;  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  3 ;  on  poetry  as  distin- 
guished from  prose,  26. 

Mayor,  J.  B.,  on  the  classifica- 
tion of  metres,  240  ;  on  dactylic 
hexameter,  2S5 ;  on  metrical 
variation,  252,  253  ;  on  Milton's 
verse,  245 ;  on  theories  of 
English  rhythm,  225  n. 

Medial  cesura,  259-261. 


Melton,  W.  F.,  on  secondary 
accent,  174. 

Meredith,  G.,  Phaethon,  288. 

Metaphor,  144,  145. 

Metonymy,  i49n. 

Metre,  d  i  stinguished  from 
rhythm,  162-164;  essential  to 
poetry,  15;  functions  of,  193- 
206;  irregular  or  mixed,  246- 
248,  346-349;  principal  types 
of,  and  how  named,  231,  232; 
variations  of,  241-257. 

Metrical  paragraph,  273. 

Metrical  romance,  51-53. 

Mill,  J.  S.,  on  poetry  as  distin- 
guished from  eloquence,  11,  24. 

Miller,  R.  D.,  on  secondary  ac- 
cent, 174. 

Milton,  J.,  Comus,  81;  //  Pen- 
serosa,  280;  V  Allegro,  280, 
281  ;  Lycidas,  41,  69;  Ode  on 
the  Morning  oj  Chrisfs  A^ativ- 
ity,  254,  317;  On  his  Blind- 
ness, 57,  327  ;  Paradise  Lost, 
44,  47,  107,  144,  183,  250,  273; 
Paraphrase  of  the  Seco?id 
Psalm,  301  ;  Paraphrase  of  the 
Sixth  Psalm,  310  ;  Samson 
Agonistcs,  345;  choral  odes  of, 
345»  347  ;  elision  in  the  verse 
of,  244,  245;  inverted  feet  in 
the  verse  of,  253 ;  sonnets  of, 
70,  71  ;  tone-quality  in  the 
verse  of,  214,  216;  on  tragedy, 
87  n. 

Mock  epic,  50. 

Monodrama,  36. 

Monologue  d^ outre  Tom  be,  338. 

Moody,  W.  v..  Menagerie,  35  ; 
Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation, 
344  n. 

Moore,  T.,  Believe  me,  if  all 
those  endearing  young  charms, 
278. 

Moralities,  148. 

Morris,  W.,  Defence  of  Guen- 
evere,  301;  Earthly  Paradise^ 
315;  Iceland  First  Seen,  315; 
Love  is  Enough,  320 ;  metrical 
romances  of,  52. 


366 


INDEX. 


Moulton,  R.  G.,  on  tragedy,  90. 

Music,  compared  with  poetry,  5, 
30;  relation  of  its  rhythm  to 
that  of  verse,  157-159;  nota- 
tion of  as  used  for  verse,  191- 
193.  237- 

Nash,    T.,    Spring,     the     Sweet 

Spring,  63. 
Neale,    J.    M.,    Jerusalem     the 

Golden,  63. 
Neutral  style,  129,  130,  136  n. 
Newcomer,  A.  G.,  on  rime,  299. 
Newman,  J.    H.,   Lead,   Kindly 

Light,  64. 
Niebehuigertlied,  43. 
Notation,    systems  of   metrical, 

191-193,    237-241 ;    for  stanza 

forms,  306  n. 

Octosyllabic  couplet,  266,  267. 

Ode,  66-68,  339-345;  choral 
type,  345  ;  irregular  type,  342  ; 
strict  Pindaric  type,  340. 

Omond,  T.  S.,  on  accent  and 
stress,  165  n.;  on  the  amphi- 
brach, 234 ;  on  dactylic  hexa- 
meter, 286 ;  on  the  division  of 
metrical  feet,  239 ;  on  dropped 
syllables,  186;  on  metrical 
variation,  248 ;  on  quantity  in 
English,  189;  on  the  rela- 
tion of  iambic  and  trochaic 
metres,  230 ;  on  the  relation 
of  musical  rhythm  and  that 
of  verse,  192,  193;  on  the  rela- 
tion of  quantity  and  accent, 
179;  on  verse  length,  266  n. 

Onomatopoeia,  213-216. 

O'Shaughnessy,  A.,  Fountain  of 
Tears,  257,  278,  316  ;  Greater 
Memory,  313;  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  315;  Song  of  Palms, 
316  n. 

Ottava  rima,  315. 

Paeon,  235. 
Paeonic  metre,  281. 
Palgrave,  F.  T.,  on  lyric  poetry, 
60. 


Palmer,  G,  H.,  on  Herbert's 
stanzas,  306  n. 

Pantoum,  338. 

Pastoral  elegy,  69. 

Pastoral  poetry,  40,  41. 

Patmore,  C,  Amelia,  346;  Toys, 
346 ;  Unknotvn  Eros,  346 ;  on 
catalexis,  262  n. ;  on  odes,  347. 

Pauses,  cesural,  258;  filling  rhy- 
thmical intervals,  183-187. 

Personification,  145-147. 

Phonetic  syzygy,  211. 

Phalaecian  metre,  288. 

Piers  Plowman,  148,  268. 

Pindaric  ode,  340. 

Pitch,  relation  of  to  the  sounds 
of  verse,  164  n.,  165  n.,  173,  207. 

Poe,  E.  A.,  Lenore,  294  n..  295  ; 
Raven,  281  ;  on  the  nature  of 
poetry,  3  ;  on  quantity  in  Eng- 
lish, 178,189. 

Poetic  justice,  89-91. 

Poetic  license,  153,   154. 

Poetry,  defined,  1-4;  an  emo- 
tional art,  18;  an  imaginative 
art,  19-21  ;  a  representative 
art,  10;  a  rhythmical  art,  15- 
17,  30;  origins  of,  4,  9,  26-30; 
relation  of  to  music,  5,  30; 
relation  of  to  the  plastic  arts, 
5~8 ;  relation  of  to  prose,  23- 
26;  style  of,  128-154;  subject 
matter  of,  122-128;  types  of, 
31-41  ;  universal  element  of, 
12-15,   121,  122. 

Polly,  put  the  kettle  on,  185. 

Pope,  A.,  Dunciad,  40;  Essay 
on  Criticism,  22 ;  Essay  on 
Alan,  199;  Iliad,  261,  267; 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  50,  107; 
didactic  poetry  of,  39 ;  fancy 
of,  107  ;  satiric  poetry  of,  40. 

Praed,  W.  M.,  vers  de  societe  of, 

73- 
Prior,  M.,  A  Better  Answer,  73. 
Proctor,    A.  A.,    religious  lyrics 

of,  64. 
Prose,  distinguished  from  poetry, 

23-26;  style  of  as  related  to  that 

of  poetry,  128-138;  rhythm  of, 


INDEX. 


367 


160-164  ;    use    of   in    tragedy, 

200-202. 
Pseudo-classical  metres,  2S8. 
Pseudo-classical  stanzas,  322. 
Purgation,  Aristotle's   theory  of, 

87  n. 
Pyrrhic,  233. 

Quantity,  in  English  verse,  175- 
193;  laws  of  summarized,  1S6, 
187;  relation  of  to  accent,  178- 
180,  187--190;  in  dactylic  hex- 
ameter, 283-285. 

Quatrains,  307-31 1. 

Raleigh,  W.,  on  Wordsworth's 
theory  of  poetic  diction,  137, 
138. 

Raymond,  Ci.  L.,  on  tone-qualitv, 
218. 

Read,  T.  V>.,  Driftijjs^,  313. 

Reconciling  drama,  91. 

Reflective  poetry,  36,  37. 

Refrain    stanzas,  319-321. 

Reynolds,  J.,  on  the  universal  in 
art,  121,   122. 

Rhythm,  defined,  155--158;  rela- 
tion of  to  English  speech,  1 59- 
193;  relation  of  to  the  nature 
of  poetry,  193-206;  relation 
of  to  beauty,  193--195;  relation 
of  to  emotion,  195-197;  rela- 
tion of  to  the  imagination,  199 ; 
as  a  means  of  idealization, 
198-202. 

Ribot,  T.  A.,  on  the  imagination, 
104. 

Rime,  290-300 ;  functions  of, 
291;  feminine,  291,  292  ;  half- 
stressed,  296  ;  identical,  298  ; 
internal,  293-295 ;  triple,  291- 
293  ;  relation  of  to  the  stanza, 
302. 

Rtine  coiice,  313. 

Kime  ri'che,  298  n. 

Rime  royal  stanza,  314, 

Robertson,  J.  M.,  on  quantity  in 
English,  189. 

Romance  (prose),  relation  of  to 
poetry,  23,  200  n. 


Romantic  drama,  82-85. 

Rondeau  and  rondel,  334,  335. 

Rossetti,  C,  Bourne,  312;  Mother 
Country,  316;  Summer  is 
Ended,  312. 

Rossetti.  D.  G.,  Ballade  of  Dead 
Ladies,  336;  Blessed  Damosel, 
313;  Burden  of  A'ineveli,  319; 
Liyi'e-Lily,  296  n.  ;  Lo7-esight, 
327  ;  Loir's  A'octurn,  315;  Kose 
Mary,  311;  Sister  Helen,  51, 
321;  Soothsay,  315;  Sunset 
Wings,  312;  'Willow-wood,  168- 
172,    296  n.  ;  sonnets    of,  330, 

Run-on  lines,  263,  264 ;   in  blank 

verse,  272,  273. 
Ruskin,  J.,   on  the  imagination, 

III  ;  on  the  nature   of  poetry, 

3.  IS"- 
Russell,  C.  E.    on    tone-quality, 

219,  220. 
Rymer,  T.,  on  the  unities,  85. 

Saintsbury,  G.,  on  distinguishing 
iambic  and  trochaic  rhythm, 
229  ;  on  the  relation  of  accent 
and  quantity,  190. 

Sanford,  E.  C,  on  the  time  rela- 
tions of  various  metres,  229  n. 

Santayana,  (i.,  on  the  imagina- 
tion, 104;  on  the  ideal  element 
in  poetry,  120. 

Sapphic  stanza,  322. 

Satiric  poetry,  40. 

Schelling,  E.  E.,  on  lyric  poetry, 
59,  60  ;  on  vers  de  societe,  'J2. 

Schelling,  F.  W.  J.,  on  art,  no. 

Schipper,  J.,  on  iambic-anapestic 
metres,  246  n.;  on  irregular 
four-stress  verse,  268 ;  on  the 
stanza,  323. 

Schlegel,  A.  W.,  on  the  drama, 

79- 
Science,    relation    of   to   poetry, 

18,  124. 
Scott,  F.  N.,  on  the  function  of 

metre,  205,  206 ;  on  poetry  as 

distinguished  from   prose,  25; 

on  the  rhythm  of  prose,  164  n, ; 


368 


INDEX. 


(with  Gayley,  C.  M.)  on  defini- 
tions of  poetry,  4. 

Scott,  W.,  Lady  of  the  Lake,  52, 
257  ;  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 
49  n. ;  Marynion,  52  ;  Proud 
Alaisie,  63  ;  ballad  poetry  of, 
29,  51  ;  on  the  octosyllabic 
couplet,  267 ;  on  romantic 
poetry,  53  n. 

Secondary  accent,  167,  172-175; 
bearing  the  rime,  296. 

Septenary  metre,  277. 

Sestina,  y^-]. 

Shakspere,  W.,  At'tony  and 
Cleopatra,  83  ;  Come  zinto  these 
yellow  sands,  62 ;  Cymbeline, 
91,  313;  Hamlet,  88-90,201; 
Hark,  hark,  the  lark,  63 ; 
Henry  V,  82 ;  fiilius  Ccesar, 
90;  King  John,  186;  King 
Lear,  90,  107,  202;  Macbeth, 
90,  107  ;  Measure  for  Measure, 
186;  MercJiant  of  Venice,  249; 
Midsjimvier  A'ighfs  Dream, 
20,  97,  103,  107,  214  ;  O  mistress 
mine,  62  ;  Othello,  84,  90,  202  ; 
Rape  of  I.ncrece,  314  ;  Richard 
II,  143;  Romeo  atid  fuliet,  90, 
107;  Sonnets,  57,  58,  70,  291, 
329;  Tempest,  84,  103,  107; 
Troilns  and  Cressida,  211  ; 
Who  is  Sylvia,  62 ;  Winters 
Tale,  91,  263  ;  on  the  imagina- 
tion, 20,  97 ;  prose  in  the 
dramas  of,  201,  202;  verse  of 
the  late  dramas  of,  264. 

Shaksperean  sonnet,  328. 

Sharp,  W.,  on  the  ode,  347 ;  on 
the  sonnet,  331. 

Shawcross,  J.,  on  Coleridge's 
theory  of  the  imagination,  109- 
III. 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  Adonais,  69,  143, 
298,  318;  Cloud,  146,  278, 
295  n. ;  Epipsychidion,  270 ; 
Ifidian  Serenade,  63,  316;  Ode 
to  Naples,  68,  341  ;  Oneuwrd  is 
too  often  profajied,  316;  O 
World,  0  Life,  O  Time,  320 ; 
Prometheus  Unoound,  81,  82  ; 
Queen     Alab,     346;     Sensitive 


Plant,  214,  309;  To  a  Skylark, 
65,  98,  143,  199,  255,  312;  Tri- 
umph of  Life,  301  ;  When  the 
lamp  is  shattered,  246;  deca- 
syllabic couplets  of,  270 ;  on 
metre,  16,  ij ;  on  the  nature 
of  poetry,  2,  15  n.,  22, 116,  1 19; 
subjective  element  in  the 
poetry  of,  57  n. 

Sidney,  P.,  My  trite  lo7>e  hath 
my  heart,  63 ;  classical  mea- 
sures imitated  by,  322;  on 
metre,  16,  17;  sonnets  of,  70. 

Simile,  142-144. 

Sir  Gatuain  and  the  Ceen 
Knight,  52. 

Six-stress  verse,  iambic,  276; 
dactylic,  283. 

Skeat,  W.  W.,  on  the  nature  of 
English  rhythm,  173,  225. 

Slurring,  243-245. 

Song,  62-64;  types  of  lyric  as 
determined  by  their  relation  to, 
64-66. 

Sonq  of  Roland,  43. 

Sonnet,  70,  71,  325-332  ;  English 
type  of,  328;  Italian  type  of, 
326. 

Sounds  of  verse,  relation  of  to 
the  imagination,  212-216,219. 

Southey,  R.,  Curse  of  Kehama, 
48,  346 ;  I^oderick,  48 ;  Tha- 
laba,  346 ;  on  dactylic  hexa- 
meter, 285. 

Spedding,  J.,  on  dactylic  hexa- 
meter, 285. 

Spenser,  E.,  Eclogue  on  the 
death  of  Sidney,  69;  Epithala- 
mion,  67,  342 ;  Faerie  Queejie, 
47,  107,  114,  148;  Prothala- 
mion,  342  ;  Shepherd's  Calen- 
der, \\,    268;    sonnets   of,    70, 

^  329- 

Spenserian  stanza,  276,  304,  317, 

318,  324. 

Spondee,  233. 

Stanza,  301-325;  formed  by 
rime,  302;  principles  govern- 
ing the  structure  of,  303-305  ; 
types  of,  306-325. 

Stedman,   E.  C,  on   the    func- 


INDEX. 


369 


tion  of  metre,  203 ;  on  the  na- 
ture of  poetry,  3. 

Stevenson,  R.  L.,  on  tone-qual- 
ity, 211. 

Stone,  S.  J.,  The  church'' s  one 
foundation,  64. 

Stress,  see  Accent. 

Style,  poetical.  113,  128-154. 

Substitution  of  metricalfeet,  242. 

Suckling,  J.,  Ballad  upon  a  Wed- 
ding, 143. 

Sully,  J.,  on  the  imagination, 
104. 

Suiner  is  icumcn  in,  56. 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  sonnets  of,  2,-^- 

Swinburne,  A.  ^.,  Appeal,  315; 
Armada,  295;  Alalanfa  in 
Calydon,  321  :  Ballad  of  Fran- 
cois Villon,  336;  Before  Daivn, 
291  ;  Choriambics,  235  ;  Death 
of  IVagner,  245;  Dedication  of 
Pcenis  and  Ballads,  303  ;  Gar- 
den of  Proserpine,  316  ;  Hertha, 
312;  Hesperia,  2S0 ;  ///  the 
Water,  180;  La  us  Veneris, 
220,  310  ;  Leper,  172  n.  ;  Sap- 
phics, 322  ;  Thalassius,  346 ; 
Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  52,  261; 
verse  of,  175,  180,  279,  280  ; 
on  English  dactylic  verse,  285  ; 
on  Greek  anapestic  verse, 
278  n. ;  on  Milton's  choral 
odes,  347. 

Syllabic  verse,  240  n.,  245,  272  n. 

Syllables,  dropped  from  the  verse 
scheme,  185,  186;  length  of  in 
English,  1 7  5-- 183- 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  on  blank  verse, 
275,  276. 

Synecdoche,  149  n. 


Tail-rime  stanza,  313,  319  n. 
T2i's,so,T .,  Jerusalem  Delivered,  43 
Tennyson,  A.,  Alcaics  on  Mil- 
ton, 322  ;  Boadtcea,  288  ;  Break, 
break,  break,  185;  Charge  of 
the  Light  Brigade,  35  ;  Coming 
of  Arthur,  213;  Crossing  the 
Bar,  145;  Dora,  41,  53,  124; 
Enoch    Ardcn,    211-213,    250 


Geraint  and  Enid,  242  f  Grand- 
mother, 35  ;  Higher  Pantheism^ 
66 ;  Idylls  of  the  King,  53,  54  n., 
118,  259  n. ;  In  Memoriam,  37, 
57,  140,  309,  323;  Lady  of 
Shalott,  298  ;  Last  Tournament^ 
250;  Locksley  Hall,  281,  306; 
Lotos  Eaters,  318;  Lucretius, 
27  ;  Alaud,  36,  37,  247,  248 ; 
More  east7vard,  hapfy  earth, 
124;  A^orthern  Farmer,  282; 
(Enone,  152;  Oriana,  320; 
Palace  of  Art,  323;  Princess, 
64,  249,  273,  294;  Promise  of 
May,  124  n.;  Revenge,  54, 
248',  346;  Kizpah,  35,  247; 
St.  Simeon  Stylites,  37  ;  S^vect 
and  Low,  63  ;  Tears,  Idle  Tears, 
64,  302  ;  Tithonus,  35;  To  Mau- 
rice, 310,  311,  322  n.;  To 
Virgil,  281  ;  Two  Voices,  307, 
324 ;  Ulysses,  35 ;  Vision  of 
Sin,  96 ;  Wellington  Ode,  68, 
343,  344;  imitations  of  classi- 
cal metres  by,  288  ;  preference 
of  for  long  stressed  syllables, 
179;  tone-quality  in  the  verse 
of,  211-213  ;  variable  cesura  in 
the  verse  of,  259  n. 

Tennyson,  C,  Steam  Threshing 
Machine,  125  n. 

Tennyson,  F.,  Dream  of  Autumn, 
310;  Glory  of  Nature,  312. 

Tercet,  307. 

Terza  rima,  300,  301,  304,  305. 

Thackeray,  Ballads,  268. 

Thomas,  W.,  on  Milton's  verse, 
244. 

Thomson,  J.,  Castle  of  Indolence, 
214;  Seasons,  34,  55. 

Thomson,  J.,    City    of  Dreadful 

Thomson,  W.,  on  the  relation  of 

musical    rhythm    to    that     of 

verse,  1S9,  191. 
Thorndike,  A.    H.,    on    tragedy, 

90  ;  on  tragi-comedy,  92. 
Tolman,  A.  H.,  on  tone-quality, 

218,  219. 
Tomlinson,  W.,  on    the   sonnet, 

326,  331. 


370 


INDEX, 


Tone-quality,  207--220  ;  in  blank 
verse,  274. 

Tragedy,  86--91 ;  themes  of,  124; 
relation  of  to  verse  form,  200- 
202. 

Tragi-comedy,  91,  92. 

Tribrach,  234. 

Triolet,  333,  334. 

Triple  ending,  256. 

Triple  rime,  291 --293. 

Triplet,  271. 

Triplett,  N.,  on  the  time  rela- 
tions of  various  metres,  229  n. 

Trisyllabic  metre,  irregularity  of, 
245,  246. 

Trochaic  metres,  280--282 ;  how 
distinguished  from  iambic, 
226-231  ;  why  avoided  in  Eng- 
lish verse,  265,  266. 

Trochee,  223. 

Tropes,  142-149. 

Truncation  of  verses,  254,  255, 

Truth,  relation  of  to  poetry,  19, 
115-121. 

Tumbling  verse,  267. 

Ugliness,  relation  of  to  beauty 
in  art,  114,  115. 

Unities,  dramatic,  83-85. 

Unity,  a  quality  of  epic  poetry, 
45 ;  of  lyric  poetry,  58  ;  of 
dramatic  poetry,  76. 

Unity  in  variety,  a  principle  of 
rhythmical  form,  194;  a  prin- 
ciple of  stanza  form,  304. 

Universal  (the)  as  an  element  of 
art,  12-15,  121,  122. 

Vergil,  ALneidy  43. 

Verrier,  P.,   on   the   division   of 

metrical  feet,  239  n. 
Vers  de  societe,  ll-lZ,  Z^Z- 
Villanelle,  335. 
Villon,    F.,     Ballade     of    Dead 

Ladies^  336. 
Volkelt,  J.,  on  tragedy,  79,  90. 
Vowels,    length    of   in    English, 

176;    quality    of   as    used    in 

verse,  210,  219. 


Waddington,  S.,  on  the  sonnet 

331- 

Waller,  E.,  Go^  Lovely  Rose,  312  ; 
vers  de  societe  of,  T}^. 

Watson,  W.,  Autumn,  319; 
Colutnbus,  316;  Hymn  to  the 
Sea,  287  ;  Ode  in  May,  316. 

Watts,  T.,  on  concreteness  as  a 
poetical  quality,  139:  on  the 
epic,  46;  on  the  function  of 
metre,  203 ;  on  the  metrical 
element  in  poetry,  17;  on  the 
nature  of  poetry,  3,  22;  on  the 
relation  of  poetry  to  other 
arts,  8;  on  Wordsworth's  Inti- 
mations of  Iftimortality,  345. 

Weak  ending,   264. 

Wells,  C,  on  vers  de  societe,  72  n., 

Werner,  R.  M.,  on  lyrical  poetry, 

59- 
Wesley,  C,  fesus.  Lover   of  my 

Soul,  64. 
White,  G.,  on   artificial    French 

stanza  forms,  336,  339. 
Whittier,  J.  C,    religious   lyrics 

of,  64. 
Woodberry,  G.  E.,  on  the  heroic 

couplet,  270. 
Woodbridge,  E.,  on  the   drama, 

79- 
Wordsworth,  W.,  Beggars,  35 ; 
Blind  Highland  Boy,  151; 
Daisy,  317;  Excursion,  37,  39, 
131  ;  Highland  Girl,  65;  Idiot 
Boy,  14  ;  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality, 68,  I  or,  199,  343- 
345 ;  /  wandered  lonely  as  a 
cloud  {Daffodils),  64,  313  ;  Last 
of  the  Flock,  35,  135;  Lucy 
Gray,  35,  57  n.,  308;  Lyrical 
Ballads,  34,  126;  Michael, 
41  n.,  53,  124,  128,  130;  Ode  to 
Duty,  146,  316;  Peter  Bell, 
131,  312  ;  Prelude,  21  ;  Sailor'' s 
Mother,  35 ;  She  was  a  phantom 
of  delight,  129;  Simon  Lee, 
131  ;  Solitary  Reaper,  316  ;  The 
world  is  too  much  with  us,  327; 
Thorn,  131,  135,  151  ;   Tintern 


INDEX, 


S7l 


Abbey,  37  ;  Two  April  Morn- 
tngs,  35 ;  IVestminstdr  Bridge, 
33 ;  sonnets  of,  70,  326 ;  on 
blank  verse,  275  ;  his  classifica- 
tion of  poetry,  31  ;  on  the 
function  of  metre,  194,  197; 
on  the  imagination,  21,  104- 
106;  on  the  lyric,  65  n. ;  on  the 
nature  of  poetry,  2,  14;  on  the 
relation  of  poetry  and  knowl- 
edge, 119;  on  the  sonnet,  71  ; 


on  the  subject  matter  of  poetry, 

128;    his     theory     of     poetic 

diction,  132-138. 
Whitman,  W.,  verse  of,  15,  348. 
VVorsfold,    W.      B.,    on     tragic 

katharsis,  88  n. 
Wrenched  accent,  172  n.,  296  n. 
Yeats,  W.  B.,  Rose  0/ the  World, 

312. 
Young,  E.,  didactic     poetry    of, 

39- 


ALDEN'S     ART     OF     DEBATE 

By  RAYMOND  M.  ALDEN,  Ph.D. 

Associate  Professor  in  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University 

XV+279PP.      i2mo.     |i.i2 

A  practical  manual  of  argumentation  and  debating,  sufficiently 
systematic  to  be  serviceable  as  a  text-book.  Legal  argument  is 
taken  as  a  means  of  approach  to  the  treatment  of  such  matters  as 
burden  of  proof  and  evidence  ;  and  tlie  classification  of  methods  of 
pniof  is  based,  not  on  the  traditional  forms  of  rhetoric  and  logic, 
but  on  the  exigencies  of  actual  debate. 

F.  N.  Scott,  Professor  in  the  University  of  Michigan:-\\.  is  a  fresh  and 
interesting  treatment  of  the  subject,  packed  with  ideas  expressed  in  a  most 
delightful  and  taking  way.  I  have  greatly  enjoyed  reading  it,  and  have 
recommended  it  heartily  to  my  students. 

Ge«.  B.  Churchill,  Professor  in  Amherst  College,  Mass..—\  think  it  is 
far  the  best  book  we  have  on  this  subject  for  college  or  general  use  It  is 
methodical,  careful,  and  full.     While  comprehensive,  it  is  easily  grasped. 

A.  L.  Bouton,  Professor  in  New  York  University:— U  is  fresh  scholarly 
entenaming,  and  more  thoroughly  practical  than  anything  else  on  that  specific 
subject  published. 

Edwin  M.  Hopkins.  Professor  in  the  University  of  Kansas  :-\  think  it 
meets  fully  and  exactly  a  pressing  need  in  all  universities  and  will  prove  most 
useful  and  popular.  It  is  complete,  practical,  and,  from  every  point  of  view 
just  the  thing  needed.  ' 

The  Ouaook:-A  remarkable  text-book.  The  author  never  loses  sight 
of  the  fact  that  debating  is  an  art  to  be  learned  through  practice  and  not  a 
science  to  be  taught  by  skilfully  framed  generalizations.  Realizing  that  the 
practice  of  law  has  trained  better  debaters  than  the  study  of  logic,  he  makes 
effective  use  of  legal  arguments  in  exemplifying  the  art  of  putting  things. 
I  he  author's  style  makes  the  book  agreeable  reading,  and  his  pre-eminent 
common  sense  gives  to  every  chapter  practical  value. 


Henry     Holt     and     Company 

34  W.ST  3,D  St.  (,,  .„j)  New  Vo« 


Alden's  SPECIMENS  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 

By  Raymond  M.  Alden,  Associate  Professor  in  Leland  Stanford  Uni- 
versity.   xiv-)-459  pp.     lamo.    $1.35. 

This  book  is  well  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the  beginner  because  it  treats  of 
the  rhetorical  effectiveness  of  given  forms  for  given  purposes  and  because  it 
furnishes,  in  convenient  arrangement,  an  unusual  quantity  of  material.  This 
material  consists  of  illustrative  passages,  arranged  for  each  point  in  chrono- 
logical order,  and,  in  addition,  a  large  number  of  brief  comments  by  various 
critics. 

C.  T.  Winchester,  Professor  in  Wesleyan  University^  Middletown,  Ct.: — 
I  think  it  certainly  the  most  useful  manual  upon  the  subject  that  I  have 
recently  seen.  The  examples  are  copious  and  admirably  selected,  and  the 
principles  drawn  from  them  clearly  stated. 

Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke,  Professor  in  Princeton  University:— IX.  seems  to  me 
an  excellent  book,  much  needed  and  thoroughly  well  made.  I  venture  to 
predict  for  it  large  usefulness. 

Bliss  Perry,  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly: — It  is  a  skilfully  planned 
and  admirably  compact  handbook.  I  know  of  no  treatise  on  versification 
which  is  so  well  adapted  for  practical  use  in  the  classroom. 


Lewis's  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 

By  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  Professor  in  Yale  University.     143  pp.     i6mo. 
$1.25. 

To  such  persons  as  enjoy  poetry,  but  think  they  might  enjoy  it  more  if  they 
found  its  metrical  structure  less  bewildering,  this  little  book  offers  material 
assistance.  The  statement  of  principles  will  also  be  of  interest  to  scholars 
and  professional  metrists. 

Outlook:— It  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  lovers  of  poetry  who  are  not 
entirely  familiar  with  the  technical  forms  of  the  different  kinds  of  verse  which 
give  them  pleasure.  ...  In  this  compact  and  easily  read  volume,  in  untech- 
nical  language,  the  various  kinds  of  meter  are  described  with  sufficient  fulness 
and  illustration  to  give  the  intelligent  lover  of  poetry  all  the  information  he 
needs  and  to  furnish  also  an  excellent  text-book. 


Hart's  STANDARD  ENGLISH  SPEECH. 

The  Development  of  Standard  English  Speech  in  Outline.    By  J.  M. 
Hart,  Professor  in  Cornell  University.     x+92pp.     i6mo.    $1.00. 

An  attempt  to  show  how  the  Englishman  or  American  of  to-day  has  come 
by  his  pronunciation.  The  treatment  is  technical  and  presupposes  some 
knowledge  of  Old  English. 


